
Class 
Book, 



Coip§ttt}J°^^ ^ C?M 



COFk'RIGHT DEPOSm 



MCOMPinE 



PREFACE 

1 HE text of the poems here adopted is that of the 
Lorimer Graham copy of the edition of 1845, ^^' 
vised by marginal corrections in Poe's hand. Inas- 
much as Poe revised his poems repeatedly and with 
great care, and seldom returned to an earher reading, 
the claim of his latest revision to be accepted as the 
authorized text seems to the Editors irresistible. For 
poems not included in the edition of 1845, the latest 
text published in Poe's lifetime, or, where an earlier 
text is wanting or was revised, the text of Griswold, 
has been adopted. 

All variant readings have been given in the 
Notes. The Editors have thought this desirable 
partly because there is no such illustration in lit- 
erature of the elaboration of poetry through long- 
continued and minute verbal processes, and partly 
because so large a portion of the verse written by 
Poe perished in those processes. It is believed that 
the view of the printed sources, here given, is com- 
plete ; and to what they afford are added the variants 
of some early MSS., consisting of a large part of 



PREFACE TO THE POEMS 

" Tamerlane " and four early poems, in Poe's hand, 
and of copies of two other early poems in a contem- 
porary hand. The date of the MSS. is, approximately, 
1829 or earlier, and they represent Poe's work after 
the publication of " Tamerlane" in 1827. They were 
in the possession of L. A. Wilmer, Esq., who was 
Poe's companion in Baltimore, and have descended 
in the Wilmer family as an heirloom. Two leaves, 
however, which had got separated from the rest, had 
come into the possession of William Evarts Benja- 
min, Esq. The Editors desire to thank the owners 
for the free use of these valuable papers. 

The Editors. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS xiii 

POEMS 

I 

POEMS 

— THE RAVEN 5 
BRIDAL BALLAD 12 

— THE SLEEPER I4 
LENORE 17 
DREAM-LAND I9 
THE VALLEY OF UNREST 21 
THE CITY IN THE SEA 22 
TO ZANTE 24 
SILENCE 25 
THE COLISEUM 26 
HYMN 28 
ISRAFEL - 29 
THE HAUNTED PALACE 3I 
THE CONQUEROR WORM 33 

•, ELDORADO 35 

EULALIE 36 

THE BELLS 37 

— ANNABEL LEE 4I 
ULALUME 43 

II 

SCENES FROM *'POLITIAN" 49 

III 

INVOCATIONS 

TO HELEN 77 

TO F 78 

TO ONE IN PARADISE 79 

TO F S S. O D 81 

A VALENTINE 82 

AN ENIGMA 83 

TO HELEN 84 

vii 



CONTENTS 



INVOCATIONS {conthiued). 
TO 



TO M. L. S 

TO 

FOR ANNIE 

TO MY MOTHER 



IV 



EARLY POEMS 
TAMERLANE 
TO SCIENCE 
AL AARAAF 

" THE HAPPIEST DAY, THE HAPPIEST HOUR 
STANZAS 
EVENING STAR 
DREAMS 

THE LAKE: TO 

SPIRITS OF THE DEAD 

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM 

SONG 

TO THE RIVER 

TO 

A DREAM 



ROMANCE 

FAIRY-LAND 

ALONE 

NOTES: TOGETHER WITH A COMPLETE 
VARIORUM TEXT OF THE POEMS 



PAGE 

88 
89 
90 
94 



97 
106 
107 
121 
122 
124 

125 
127 
128 
130 

131 
132 

133 
134 

135 
136 



141 



viu 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 



OMALL as is the body of Poe's metrical work, rela- 
tive to that of his prose, and in comparison with the 
amount of verse written by any other American poet 
of his rank and time, it has sufficed to bring about 
certain obvious results. First of all, it has established 
him in the minds of the common people, not as the 
critic or the tale-writer, but as a poet, and as a poet 
who, from their notions of his life, was almost the last 
of those fulfilling old-time traditions of the character. 
Since the date when " The Raven," let us say, got 
into the school-readers, — and that was within five 
years after its appearance in the " American Review," 
— the public conception of its author has been that of 
a poet. We have found in the Tales the fullest ex- 
pression of his genius. These, to his own mind, were 
his most significant creations. But such is the dis- 
tinction of poetry that its mere form is taken by the 
people as the ranking warrant of never so industrious 
a prose-writer, if he is the author of a few, but verita- 
ble songs. This royal prerogative of verse, in point 
of impression made, and of the attribute with which 
its author is invested, exists by a law as irrespective 
of relative mass, and quite as sure, as that of the 
" hydrostatic paradox " which makes a thin column 
xiii , 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

of water balance the contents of an acred reservoir. 
Thus it has resulted that Poe is, and doubtless always 
will be, gazetted as " the poet." 

It may also be said of his verse that it has led to 
more difference of opinion than that of our other poets, 
one alone excepted, A few lyrics — possibly his most 
individual, though not necessarily his most imagina- 
tive and essentially poetic — are those for which he 
is widely lauded. The succession has been endless 
of zealots who, on the score of " The Raven," " The 
Bells," and " Annabel Lee," set him above poets of 
whom they have read very little. And he has been 
the subject of a long-standing dispute among authori- 
tative writers here and abroad, some of whom pro- 
nounce him one of the two, or at the most, three 
American poets really worth attention ; while others, 
of the philosophic bent, regard his verse as very prim- 
itive, and its maker as a ballad-monger. Upon the 
latter class, composed of both realists and transcend- 
entalists, the host of sentimentalists has retaliated, 
and so a discussion has gone on to the present day. 

But neither zeal nor preiudice can put aside data, in 
view of which dispassionate critics have for some time 
been in accord as to the nature of Poe's lyrical genius 
and the resultant quality and value of the following 
poems. It is clear that they are slight and few in 
number, but no more slight and few than the relics of 
other poets, ancient and modern, which have served 
to establish fame. It is seen that they are largely 
wrought out from the vague conceptions of the ro- 
mancer's youth : that he began as a poet, so far as he 
was anything but a wanderer, and that, notwithstand- 
ing his avowal that poetry was his passion and not his 
purpose, he had will and ambition enough to put in 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

print, once and again, the germinal verses which were 
brought to such completeness in after years ; that 
throughout life his expression confined itself to one 
mood, almost to a single key, his purpose not being 
sufficiently continuous to save his rhythmical gift from 
prolonged checks to its exercise ; finally, that the dis- 
tinctive feature of his work is found on its artistic and 
technical side, and is so marked as to constitute his 
specific addition to poetry, and to justify full consid- 
eration. All, in fine, must look upon his verse as 
small in amount and restricted in motive, and consider 
his forte to be that of a pecuhar melodist, — the origi- 
nator of certain strains which have been effectual. 
However monotonous, they have not, like other " catch- 
ing " devices, proved temporary and wearisome, but 
have shown themselves founded in nature by still 
charming the ear and holding their place in song. 

With this brief statement of matters upon which 
agreement has been reached, something can be said 
in detail. Poe may not have "lisped in numbers," 
but he certainly began as a verse-maker when he 
began to write at all, as is the way of those who have 
even the rhymester's gift. His early measures were 
nebulous in meaning and half-moulded in form, yet 
his first three books were made up of such alone. 
Between the volume of 1831 and that of 1845, an in- 
dustrious professional term, his work as a poet was 
mainly confined to the development of finished lyrics 
from the germs contained in those first vague utter- 
ances. Meanwhile his fresh invention concerned itself 
with prose. A true poet is an idealist ; the great one, 
an idealist taking flight from the vantage-ground of 
truth and reason. Poe was at least the former, and it 
would appear that his metrical faculty suffered, as has 



J 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

just been said, checks to its exercise rather than an 
arrest of development. Even his would-be realistic 
tales of adventure are bizarre in motive and treatment ; 
they are not cast in true naturalism. Setting these 
aside, however, the existence of " Ligeia," " Usher," 
" Shadow," " Arnheim," and the like, which fairly 
may be regarded as prose poems, forbids us wholly 
to deprecate his halt as a verse-maker, and speaks for 
the public recognition of him chiefly in his capacity as 
a poet. That the advance of his lyrical faculty kept 
pace with, and was aided by, his prose as a running- 
mate, is shown by the difference between " A Paean," 
1831, and the " Lenore " of 1845 I or between almost 
any poem, save the beauteous " Israfel," in the early 
volumes, and "The Haunted Palace" of 1839. After 
fourteen years of journalism and fiction, he began, 
with " The Raven," a final series of poems, showing 
the mastery of finish and original invention at which 
he had arrived, and which he possessed to the last 
year of his general decline. 

Without doubt, a distinctive melody is the element 
in Poe's verse that first and last has told on every 
class of readers, — a rhythmical effect which, be it of 
much or little worth, was its author's own ; and to 
add even one constituent to the resources of an art 
is what few succeed in doing. He gained hints from 
other poets toward this contribution, but the timbre of 
his own voice was required for that peculiar music 
reinforced by the correlative refrain and repetend ; a 
melody, but a monody as well, limited almost to the 
vibratory recurrence of a single and typical emotion, 
yet no more palling on the ear than palls the constant 
sound of a falling stream. It haunted rather than 
irked the senses, so that the poet was recognized by 
xvi 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

it, — as Melmoth the Wanderer by the one delicious 
strain heard wherever he approached. This brought 
him, on the other hand, the slight of many compeers, 
and for this the wisest of them spoke of him as the 
"jingle-man." Yet there is more than this, one may 
well conceive, in his station as a poet. 

Not a few, whose border line between high thinking 
and plain moralizing is often crossed, have been in- 
clined to leave him out of the counting. One of them, 
extolling Bryant and Emerson, declares that Poe, as 
an American poet, is " nowhere." An orator of the 
Bryant centenary has named a sextet of our national 
singers, in which the author of " The Raven " is not 
included. There is an irrepressible conflict between 
the melodists and the intuitionists. Against this 
down-east verdict, the belief of foreign judges has 
been that something worth while was gained by him 
for English poetry. It has been stated that Tenny- 
son thought him the most remarkable poet the United 
States had produced, and "not unworthy to stand 
beside Catullus, the most melodious of the Latins, 
and Heine, the most tuneful of the Germans." It 
would be easy to trace the effect of his tone upon 
various minor lyrists of England and France, and 
indirectly upon the greater ones. There were lessons 
to be learned, if only on the technical side, from his 
rhythm and consonance. In fact, something is always 
to be caught by the greater artists from the humblest 
artisans, as from the folk-song of any race or country. 

But is it all a matter of technique ? Are the few 
numbers of Poe's entire repertory simply "literary 
feats " ? Is " Annabel Lee " merely " sounding brass 
or a tinkling cymbal".? Is its author fairly classed, 
by one who admits that we need all instruments " in 
xvii 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

the perfect orchestra," as " a tinkling triangle among 
the rest " ? The epithets cited are specimens of many 
indicating the mood, and what underlies the mood, of 
those with whom he is antipathetic. Our question in- 
volves the mysterious sympathies of sound and sense 
in lyrical poetry, and these involve the secret of all 
speech itself. Those who regard Poe as only " a 
verbal poet" may be assured that the fit arbiter is the 
universalist. It is not given to all art's factors to be 
of equal worth or import. The view of the intellec- 
tualists, with their disdain for technical beauty, is 
limited ; no doubt the view of Poe was limited, — 
most often, evidently, by the impatience of a non- 
conformist, for he had the critical sense in which 
Emerson, for instance, was deficient ; and the limita- 
tions on both sides were greater for the unconscious- 
ness of both that they existed. It is worth noting 
that when a bard like Emerson " let himself go," he 
was more spontaneous, and as a result more finely 
lyrical, than Poe. On the other hand, Poe's most 
imaginative numbers have a rare subtlety of thought, 
and depend least upon his mechanism. 

Those persons who, if they care a little for the 
piano, know no touch of it, fail to understand the 
sensations excited in others by the personal mastery 
of a virtuoso over that artificial instrument. Quite as 
natural is the honest behef of a superior man who 
applies to Poe's poetry the epithet "valueless." 
Some of it, for reasons not at all enigmatical to the 
minstrel tribe, is of extreme suggestiveness and value. 
Certain pieces are likely to outlast in common repute 
nineteen-twentieths of our spirited modern fiction, 
while others, though really of a higher grade, may be 
cherished in the regard of only the elect few. Both 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

these classes are of a lyrical order, either composed or 
rewritten in his manhood, and undeniably obtaining 
their audience through the charm of that music 
absent for the most part from his ambitious early 
verse. There is no better proof of his natural force 
and originality, than his acceptance of the fact that 
all tracks are not for all runners who wear winged 
sandals. Clive Newcome felt it due to himself to put 
on canvas his " Battle of Assaye," which so strangely 
failed of Academic honors, and the eminent Mr. 
Gandish, of Soho, kept on painting " Boadiceas " and 
" Alfreds " to his dying day. Our young poet, as 
well, tried his hand once and again at the making of 
a long romantic poem, and, later, in the production of 
a blank-verse drama, but had the literary good sense, 
whatsoever his ill-judgment in life, — and the two 
often go together in a man of genius, — to perceive 
for himself that the result was something " labored," 
and not worth the labor except for the experience and 
practice ; that " Tamerlane," " Al Aaraaf," and " Po- 
litian " were the outcome of perseverance, and not 
written with the zest that ministers to one doing what 
he is born to do. Of course it takes less will-power 
to refrain than to persist ; but it speaks well for one's 
perception, and for his modesty, when he ceases to 
attempt things for which he has no vocation, instead 
of mastering them because they are dimensional and 
because others have gained fame thereby. In 
"Aurora Leigh" it is counted "strange . . . that 
nearly all young poets should write old ! " It would 
be strange indeed if an artist began in any other way. 
A young poet is no different from che young sculptor 
or painter, who first is set to copy from accepted 
models, save that he gropes his way as his own 
xix 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

master and in his own studio, — there being as yet, 
and happily, no class or school for poets: their 
Academy is the world's book of song. Poe, growing 
up under the full romantic stress, at the end of the 
Georgian period, and by temperament himself as 
much of a romancer as Byron or Moore, inevitably 
aped the manner and copied the structure of poems he 
must have known by heart. So we have " Tamer- 
lane," a manifest adumbration of "The Giaour," and 
"Al Aaraaf," that not unmelodious but inchoate 
attempt to create a love-legend in verse. The last 
poem, with its curious leaps from the peaks of Milton 
to the musky vales of Moore, would be a good trav- 
esty on one of the latter poet's pseudo-Oriental 
romances, if form, scenery, and a conscientious pro- 
cession of " Notes " could make it so. In his juve- 
nile way, Poe worked just as Moore had done, reading 
up for his needs, but he mistook the tnateria poetica 
for poetry itself. There is a bit of verse in it — the 
invocation to Ligeia — which is like the wraith of 
beauty, and here and there are other, but fainter, 
traces of an original gift. A less self-critical gen- 
ius than Poe would have gone on making more 
" Tamerlanes " and " Al Aaraafs " until he made them 
nearly as well as his masters, and none would care for 
them, there being already enough of their kind. If he 
never freed his temper from Byronism, he certainly 
changed the mould and method of his poetry, until he 
arrived at something absolutely his own — becoming 
solely a lyrist, and never writing a lyric until pos- 
sessed of some initiative strain. When in after years 
he engaged to write and deliver a long poem, his 
nature revolted; he found it beyond his power, and he 
fell back upon the unintelligible " Al Aaraaf" as a 

XX 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

makeshift with the Boston audience. Other Ameri- 
can poets have found it equally impossible to fill a 
half-hour with verse written to order, and have figured 
to even less advantage on state occasions. Touches 
of Poe's natural and final quality are to be found here 
and there among the fragmentary lyrics in his early 
volumes, and two of the more complete poems are 
very striking. " To Helen " is so lovely, though not 
absolutely flawless, that one wonders it had no com- 
panions of its kind. The other is the sonnet "To 
Science," originally the prelude to " Al Aaraaf," and 
in this volume placed where it belongs. It may be 
that Poe was so impressed by the gathering conflict 
between poetry and science, through pondering upon 
the antithesis drawn by Coleridge. A young romancer, 
at the outset of the perturbation involved, could not 
be expected to await with patience that golden and 
still distant future when, according to Wordsworth's 
preface, the poet and the philosopher are to become 
one. He himself was not without the scientific bent 
and faculty, but as a poet and recounter his work lay 
in the opposite extreme. 

Mention of the interlude, " Ligeia ! Ligeia! " recalls 
the fact that in his early poems and tales Poe liberally 
drew upon the rather small stock of pet words, epi- 
thets, names, and phrases, which he invented, or kept 
at hand, for repeated use throughout the imaginative 
portion of his writings. The " albatross " and " con- 
dor " are his birds, no less than the raven ; and such 
names as " Ligeia," " D'Elormie," " Weir," " Yaanek," 
" Auber," add an effect to the studied art of the pieces 
in which they appear. It has been pointed out that 
his famihars are chiefly angels and demons, with an 
xxi 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

attendance of dreams, echoes, ghouls, gnomes, and 
mimes, for characteristic service. 

There is every reason why the element in his poetry 
which to some appears so valueless should first be 
considered. He was indeed, and avowedly, a poet of 
Sound. From his childhood, things must have " beat 
time to nothing " in his brain, and his natural bent 
may have been confirmed by some knowledge of 
Tieck's doctrine that sense in poetry is secondary to 
sound ; the truth being, no less, that impassioned 
thought makes its own gamut, — that sense and sound 
go together, for reasons which are coming to be scien- 
tifically understood. On the latter ground one must 
surmise that, where lyrical melody is absolute, poetic 
thought is its undertone, except in the case of a pure 
fantasia like " Kubla Khan" or the verse of some 
metrical lunatic — such as more than one of Poe's 
imitators proved himself to be. Whether or not music 
is, as Frederick Tennyson entitles it, " the queen of 
the arts " whose *' inexhaustible spring is the soul 
itself," the lyrist who disdains it, and the critic who 
disdains the musical lyrist, are of an equal rashness. 
Poe's own estimate of music was quite as extreme, 
and perfectly sincere ; and with respect to that art, 
there is no better illustration of its embalming power 
as an element of poetic expression than the rhythm of 
Poe's critical master, Coleridge, — whose haunting 
cadence, rather than his philosophic thought, en- 
thralled the minstrel group to which he was least allied, 
and whose " Christabel " disclosed to Scott and Byron 
the accentual law of English prosody. For Poe the 
vibrations of rhythmical language contained its higher 
meaning; the libretto was nothing, the score all in all. 
Takf^ " Ulalume," for instance, because so many pro- 
xxii 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

nounce it meaningless, and a farrago of monotonous 
cadences, and because it is said to violate Lessing's 
law by trenching on the province of music. Surely, if 
there is any art which may assume that province, it is 
the art of speech, and this whether in the rhythm of 
verse or the more intricate and various rhythm of 
pyose. The effect of verse primarily depends upon 
the recurrence of accents, measures, vocalizations; and 
the more stated the recurrence, the less various and 
potential the rhythm ; as when the infinite play of 
waves changes to a current between measured banks : 

a shallow river 

" to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals." 

Ordered measures compel attention, defining and pro- 
longing efficient notes. To make the sense respon- 
sive, as one chord responds to the vibrations of an- 
other, — to intensify the average hearer's feeling, — 
iteration comes into play. The rhythm of prose is 
always changing, and, if recognized, cannot be dwelt 
upon. Ordinary speech is nearest to pure nature, and 
we are so little sensible of its flexible rhythm as to be 
arrested by it no more than by sunlight, or by the influx 
of the electric current at its highest voltage. 

It must be confessed, then, that much of the follow- 
ing poetry, judged by this specific element, is second- 
ary in one or two respects. Technically, because it 
rarely attains to the lyrical quality that alone can 
satisfy the delicate ear. In verse, as in a keyed in- 
strument, any advance means finer intervals and 
more varied range. Poe's sense of time and accent 
was greater than that of tone. The melody of his 
pieces oftenest named, though not " infantine," is 
elementary — and far from elemental. Its obviousness 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

catches the ear ; and many, who are moved by it to 
their full capacity of feeling, see in him their poet, 
and therefore the best poet. We owe the more subtle 
quality of his heptasyllabic verse to early reading of 
the poet that struck the pure lyrical strain as none 
other since the Elizabethans — who were lyrists one 
and all. Shelley, whether by instinct, or having 
learned it from them, and from his Greek choruses 
and anthology, wrought the charm of broken cadences 
and wandering chords. Poe at least felt the spirit of 
Shelley's monodies, such as the " Lines written among 
the Euganean Hills," and added something to it in 
" The, Sleeper," " The City in the Sea," and " The 
Valley of Unrest." 

If the poetry of sound, to be real, is also the poetry 
of sense, it imphes a reservation in our estimate of 
Poe, that we reflect upon structure as a main consid- 
eration, and do not at the outset pass from the tech- 
nique to what the song expresses — to the feeling, the 
imagination, the sudden glory of thought. We come 
to this in the end, yet are halted often throughout his 
later lyrics by the persistence of their metrical devices. 
In the early verses just named, which he- finally 
brought to completeness, we do find those delicious 
overtones, and that poetry for poets, which were un- 
wonted to the muse of his country and time. For 
these one must read " The Sleeper," — even more, 
" The City in the Sea," of which the light is streaming 

" Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers. 
Up many and many a marvellous shrine 
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 
The viol, the violet, and the vine. 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

" Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 
So blend the turrets and shadows there 
That all seems pendulous in air, 
While from a proud tower in the town 
Death looks gigantically down." 

In one, certainly, of these remodelled pieces, the 
stanzas finally entitled " To One in Paradise," the 
spell of Shelley's "wandering airs" that "faint" is 
captured for Poe's momentary and ethereal mood. " 

The revision of " Lenore," originally " A Paean," 
involved his first success with the repetend. There 
is little in the annals of literary art so curious, and 
nothing half so revelatory of the successive processes 
in the handicraft of a fastidious workman, as the first 
complete Variorum of Poe's metrical writings, which 
will be found in the Notes appended to the text 
adopted for this volume. With the exception of " To 
Helen " and " Israfel," his early poems grew slowly, 
" a cloud that gathered shape," from the formless and 
sometimes maundering fragments contained in the 
volume of 1831, to their consistent beauty in 1845. 
Even as it finally appeared, " Lenore " did not quite 
satisfy him, and our text now profits by the marginal 
changes, in the poet's handwriting, on the pages of his 
own copy of " The Raven and Other Poems." Justi- 
fiable protests are often heard against alterations 
made by poets in their well-estabhshed texts, but Poe 
had to change his early verse or discard it altogether, 
and his after-touches, even with respect to " The 
Raven," were such as to better the work. For an 
example of the repetend, as here considered, we need 
only take the final couplet of any stanza of " Lenore : " 

" An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young, 
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young." 

XXV 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

It is just as deft and persistent throughout " The 
Raven;" as exemplified in the lines so often quoted, 
upon one whom " unmerciful Disaster " 

" Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore : 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore " — 

and so it characterizes " Eulalie," " The Bells," " For 
Annie," and " Annabel Lee," reaching its extreme in 
" Ulalume." The poet surely found his clew to it, 
just as " Outis " intimated, in Coleridge's wondrous 
" Rime ; " since, though not unknown to English 
balladry, it does not therein produce the conjuring 
effect of which we are sensible when we read : — 

"And I had done an hellish thing, 
And it would work them woe : 
For all averred I had killed the bird 
That made the breeze to blow. 
♦ Ah wretch I ' said they, ' the bird to slay. 
That made the breeze to blow ! ' " « 

The force of the refrain, a twin adjuvant of Poe's/ 
verse, — as used, for example, in " The Raven " and 
"The Bells," — was impressed upon him, most prob- 
ably, by Miss Barrett's constant resort to it, of which 
the toll of the passing bell, in " The Rhyme of the 
Duchess May," is a good instance. Apparently, also, 
he owed his first idea of the measure of " The Raven," 
and something of what he would have called the "de- 
cora " of that poem, to one or more passages in " Lady 
Geraldine's Courtship," but only as one musician 
receives his key from another, to utilize it with a fresh 
motive and for an original composition. With respect 
to the repetend and refrain, it must finally be noted 
that they are the basis of his later manner ; that in 
their combination and mutual reaction they constitute ~ 
xxvi 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

the sign-manual, and the artistic reliance, of Poe in 
every one of the lyrical poems composed within the 
last five years of his life, " The Raven " beginning 
the series. 

Two or three of the earlier pieces are distinguished 
from the rest by the vision, the ideality, the intellectual 
purpose, which alone can devise and perfect a work of 
art. "Israfel" came nearer to completeness at once 
than his other youthful poems, except the fortunate 
little cameo, — " Helen, thy beauty is to me ; " and the 
Variorum shows relatively few changes from the text 
of 1 83 1. As a rapturous declaration of kinship with 
the singer " whose heart-strings are a lute " it is its 
own excuse for any license taken in forcing a passage 
from the Koran. Some of the lines are transcendent : 

" The ecstasies above 

With thy burning measures suit : 
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
With the fervor of thy lute : 
Well may the stars be mute I 

" Yes, Heaven is thine; but this 
Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
Our flowers are merely — flowers, 
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours." 

The more " Israfel " is studied, the rarer it seems. 
The lyric phrasing is minstrelsy throughout — the soul 
of nature mastering a human voice. Poe did well to 
perfect this brave song without marring its spontaneous 
beauty ; young as he was, he knew when he had been 
a poet indeed. 

An equally captivating poem, in which we have the 
handling of a distinct theme by an imaginative artist, 
is that most ideal of lyrical allegories, " The Haunted 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

Palace." Its author's allegorical genius was as spe- 
cific, in both his verse and his romantic prose, as 
Hawthorne's —less varied, but at times more poetic. 
This changeful dream of radiance and gloom, re- 
hearsed by the dreamer in his purest tones, unites, 
beyond almost any other modern poem, an enchanting 
melody with a clear imagining, to celebrate one of the 
most tragical of human fates. The palace, at first 
risen " hke an exhalation " from the meads of Para- 
dise, is now but the shattered and phantasmal relic of 
its starry prime, and of its inhabitants with their de- 
throned monarch, the sovereign Reason. Its once 
lustrous windows, like the distraught eyes of the Cenci, 
exquisite in her bewilderment, are now the betraying 
emblems of a lost mind. Still another piece with a 
defined theme is " The Conqueror Worm." This has 
less beauty, and verges on the melodramatic border 
that is the danger-hne of a romanticist. Piteousness 
is its motive, as so often in the works of Poe, and its 
power is unquestionable as we see it framed, in the 
story of Ligeia, like "The Haunted Palace" in that 
of the fated Usher. The skilful interblending of these 
poems with the doom and mystery of the prose ro- 
mances, and that of the stanzas, " To One in Para- 
dise," with the drama of a Venetian night in "The 
Assignation," render it a question whether the three 
stories, each so powerful in its kind, were not written 
as a musician might compose sonatas, to develop the 
utmost value of the lyrical themes. They do this so 
effectively as to strengthen the statement that Poe's 
record as a poet goes beyond his verse bequeathed to 
us. The prose of his romances, at the most intense 
pitch, seems to feel an insufficiency, and summons 
music and allegory to supplement its work, 
xxviii 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

Thus, in the origin and evolution of verse written 
before his thirty-fifth year, vi^e find his natural gift 
unsophisticated, except in the case of a single lyric, 
by the deliberate methods which he afterwards and 
successfully employed. If, now, we consider the spirit 
of all his work as a poet, — it is, in fact, consistent 
with his theories of poetry in general and of his own 
in especial, as set forth at the outset, and in time sup- 
plemented in " The Poetic Principle" and other essays. 
His verse is based in truth, as a faithful expression of 
his most emotional mood — to wit, an exquisite melan- 
choly, all the more exquisite because unalloyed by hope. 
The compensation given certain natures for a sensitive 
consciousness of mortality and all its ills involved is 
that of finding the keenest pleasure in the most ruth- 
less pain. Poe, wholly given to " the luxury of woe," 
made music of his broodings. If he did not cherish 
his doom, or bring it on determinedly, that which he 
prized the most was of a less worth to him when not 
consecrated by the dread, even the certainty, of its 
impending loss. His themes were regret, the irrepar- 
able, the days that are no more. His intellectual view 
of the definition and aim of poetry has been briefly 
noted in an Introduction to the Criticism, but may 
properly be considered again. It was not so much 
borrowed from, as confirmed by, what he found in his 
readings of Coleridge, Mill, and others, who have dis- 
coursed upon imagination, emotion, melody, as servi- 
tors of the poet and his art. We have his early 
generalizations upon the province of song. Not truth, 
but pleasure, he thought to be its object. The pleas- 
ure depends upon the quality of lyrical expression, and 
must be subtile — not obviously defined. Music, he 
said, is its essential quality, "since the comprehension 
xxix 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception." To 
this it may be rejoined that the hearer's definiteness 
of comprehension depends largely upon his knowledge 
of music, both as a science and as an art. On the 
other hand, many who are sensitive to musical ex- 
pression will accord with Poe's maturer avowal that 
" it is in music that the soul most nearly attains the 
supernal end for which it struggles." From the first 
he was impatient of " metaphysical " verse and of its 
practitioners. Many years later, he laid stress on his 
belief " that a long poem does not exist." This state- 
ment had been made by others, but seemed to him a 
necessary inference from any definition of poetry as 
the voice of emotion; moreover, it tallied with a sense 
of his own capacity for sustaining an emotional tide, 
whether of influx or outflow. In Mr. Lang's comment, 
the point is made that this theory or paradox "shrinks 
into the commonplace observation that Poe preferred 
lyric poetry, and that lyrics are essentially brief." 
Short poems, in lyrical measures, were in truth the 
only ones in which he did anything out of the common. 
Thus he restricts an art to the confines of his own 
genius, and might as well forbid a musician to com- 
pose a symphony or other extended masterpiece. We 
say "the musician," because music is that other art 
which, like poetry, operates through successive move- 
ments, having as a special function prolongation in 
time. As for this, all Poe's work shows him as a 
melodist rather than a harmonist; his ear is more 
analytic than synthetic, and so is his intellect, except 
in the structural logic of his briefer forms of poetry 
and prose narrative. The question turns on the 
capacity for sustained exaltation on the part of poet 
or musician, reader or listener. With respect to Poe's 
xxx 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

lifelong abjuration of " the didactic," honor is due his 
memory ; none attacked its abuse so consistently, and 
at a time so opportune. Declaring poetry to be the 
child of taste, he arrived at his clear-cut formula that 
it is "The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty." If in his 
analysis of this, — the rhythm of human language 
being implied, — he had made his last word sufficiently 
inclusive, the definition would be excellent. But he 
confines the meaning of " beauty " to aesthetics, and to 
the one form of sensibility which he terms " supernal," 
— that of ecstatic sadness and regret. 

In the end, continuing from the general to the par- 
ticular, he still further limited his supernal beauty to 
the expression of a single motive, by reasoning toward 
a theme that must be its highest excitant. This he 
did most fully in the " Philosophy of Composition," 
with " The Raven " for a paradigm. Since, he argued, 
the extreme note of beauty is sadness, caused by the 
tragedy of life and our powerlessness to grasp its 
meaning or avail against it, the tone of beauty must 
relate to the irreparable, and its genesis to a supremely 
pathetic event. The beauty of woman is incompar- 
able, the death of a beloved and beautiful woman the 
supreme loss and " the most poetical topic in the 
world." Upon it he would lavish his impassioned 
music, heightening its effects by every metrical device, 
and by contrast with something of the quaint and 
grotesque — as the loveliness and glory of a mediaeval 
structure are intensified by gargoyles, and by weird 
discordant tracery here and there. 

The greater portion of Poe's verse accords with his 

theory at large. Several of the later poems illustrate 

it in general and particular. "The Raven " bears out 

his ex post facto analysis to the smallest detail. We 

- xxxi 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

have the note of hopelessness, the brooding regret, 
the artistic value supported by richly romantic prop- 
erties in keeping ; the occasion follows the death of 
a woman beautiful and beloved ; the sinister bird is 
an emblem of the irreparable, and its voice the sombre 
" Nevermore." Finally, the melody of this strange 
poem is that of a vocal dead-march, and so compulsive 
with its peculiar measure, its refrain and repetends, 
that in the end even the more critical yielded to its 
quaintness and fantasy, and accorded it a lasting place 
in literature. No other modern lyric is better known ; 
none has been more widely translated into foreign 
tongues or made the subject of more comment. While 
it cannot be pronounced its author's most poetic com- 
position, nor render him a "poet's poet," it still is the 
lyric most associated with his name. His seemingly 
whimsical account of its formation most hkely is both 
true and false. Probably the conception and rough 
cast of the piece were spontaneous, and the author, 
then at his prime both as a poet and a critic, saw how 
it best might be perfected, and finished it somewhat 
after the method stated in his essay. The analysis 
will enable no one to supersede imagination by arti- 
fice. It may be that Poe never would have written it 
— that he would have obeyed the workman's instinct 
to respect the secrecy of art, lest the voluntary ex- 
posure of his Muse should be avenged by her — had 
he not ruminated upon the account given him by 
Dickens, of the manner in which Godwin wrote " Caleb 
Williams," namely : that he wrote it " backwards." 
He "first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, 
forming the second volume, and then, for the first, 
cast about him for some mode of accounting for what 
he had done." 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

Poe's faculties as a poet being evidently in full 
vigor when he composed "The Raven," its instant 
success well might have inclined him to renew their 
exercise. He did produce a few more lyrics, of which 
two — " The Bells " and " Annabel Lee " — are almost 
equally well known, and they were written in the last 
year of his life, the time in which he was least equal 
to extended work. If his career had gone on, and he 
had continued, even at long intervals, to write pieces 
so distinctive, there would now be small contention as 
to his rank as an American poet. Apparently he 
never even attempted to compose unless some strain 
possessed him in that mysterious fashion known to 
poets and melodists alone ; and this most likely at 
the abnormal physical and mental crises that recur 
throughout periods of suffering and demoralization. 

His interpretative power — which so informs "The 
Bells " with human consciousness and purpose, until 
joy, passion, rage, and gloom are the meaning of 
their strokes and vibrations — is always triumphant 
when he enters, as in " Ulalume," his own realm of 
fantasy, " the limbo of . . . planetary souls." The 
last-named poem, by no means a caprice of grotesque 
sound and phraseology, such as some have deemed it, is 
certainly unique in craftsmanship, and the extreme 
development of his genius on its mystical side. The 
date of this piece supports the legend, which one is 
fain to believe, that it was conceived in his hour of 
darkest bereavement. The present writer has said 
elsewhere that it " seems an improvisation, such as a 
violinist might play upon the instrument which re- 
mained his one thing of worth after the death of a 
companion who had left him alone with his own soul." 
The simple and touching " Annabel Lee," doubtless 
xxxiii 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

•also inspired by tlie memory of Iiis Virginia, ap- 
peared after his own death witli Griswold's remarkable 
obituary of him, in the New York " Tribune." The 
refrain and measure of this lyric suggest a reversion^ 
in the music-haunted brain of its author, to the songs 
and melodies that, whether primitive or caught up, 
are favorites with the colored race, and that must have 
been familiar to the poet during his childhood in the 
South. 

Little more need here be said of this child of the 
early century, who gained and long will hold a niche 
in the world's Valhalla — not for a many-sided inspira- 
tion, since his song is at the opposite extreme from 
that of those universal poets the greatest of whom has 
received the epithet of myriad-minded — but as one 
who gazed so intently at a single point that he became 
self-hypnotized, and rehearsed most musically the 
visions of his trance ; not through human sympathy 
or dramatic scope and truth, but through his individu- 
ality tempered by the artistic nature which seizes upon 
one's own grief or exultation for creative use ; most of 
all, perhaps, as one whose prophetic invention antici- 
pated the future, and throve before its time and in a 
country foreign to its needs — as if a passion-flower 
should come to growth in some northern forest and 
at a season when blight is in the air. His music 
surely was evoked from "unusual strings." He was 
not made of stuff to please, nor cared to please, the 
didactic moralists, since he held that truth and beauty 
are one, and that beauty is the best antidote to vice — 
a word synonymous, in his belief, with deformity and 
ugliness. His song " was made to be sung by night," 
yet was the true expression of himself and his world. 
That world he located out of space, out of time, but 
. xxxiv 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 

his poems are the meteors that traverse it. So far 
as it was earthly, it was closed about, and barred 
against the common world, like the walled retreat of 
Prince Prosper© in "The Masque of the Red Death; " 
and in the same wise his poems become the hourly 
utterance of that clock of ebony, the chimes from 
which constrained the revellers to pause in their dan- 
cing with strange disconcert, and with portents of they 
knew not what. His prose at times was poetry, and 
for the rest its Muse seldom gave place to the sister 
Muse of song. The prose of poets is traditionally 
genuine, yet, in our day at least, the greater poets have 
for the most part written verse chiefly, if not alone. 
If more of Poe's imaginative work had been cast in 
metrical form, it might have proved more various and 
at spells even rapturous and glad. And if the sun- 
shine of his life had been indeed even the shadow of 
the perfect bliss which he conceived to be the heav- 
enly minstrel's, he would have had a more indubitable 
warrant for his noble vaunt, that Israfel himself 
earth-fettered, 

" Might not sing so wildly well 
A mortal melody." 

E. C. S. 



XXXV 



POEMS 



TO THE NOBLEST OF HER btX 

TO THE AUTHOR OF 

" THE DRAMA OF EXILE " 

TO MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT 

OF ENGLAND 

I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME 

WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION 

AND WITH THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM. 

E. A. Po 



PREFACE TO THE COLLECTION 
OF 1845 

These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with 
a view to their redemption from the many improvements 
to which they have been subjected while going " the rounds 
of the press." I am naturally anxious that what I have 
written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. 
In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent 
on me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much 
value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events 
not to be controlled have prevented me from making, at 
any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circum- 
stances, would have been the field of my choice. With me 
poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion ; and the pas- 
sions should be held in reverence ; they must not — they 
cannot at will be excited with an eye to the paltry compen- 
sations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind. 

E. A. P. 



POEMS 



THE RAVEN 

v_/NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 

weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten 

lore, — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came 

a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber 

door. 
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my 

chamber door: 

Only this and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak Decem- 
ber, 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost 
upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow ; — vainly I had sought 
to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the 
lost Lenore, 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
name Lenore : 

Nameless here for evermore. 
5 



POEMS 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple 

curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt 

before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood 

repeating 
" 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 

door, 
Some late visitor en treating entrance at my chamber 

door: 

This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no 

longer, 
" Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I 

implore ; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came 

rapping. 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 

chamber door. 
That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened 

wide the door : — 

Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there 

wondering, fearing. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to 

dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave 

no token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered 

word, " Lenore ? " 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the 

word, " Lenore : " 

Merely this and nothing more. 
6 



THE RAVEN 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 

burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than 

before. 
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my 

window lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery 

explore ; 
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery 

explore : 

*Tis the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt 

and flutter. 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days 

of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped 

or stayed he; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 

chamber door. 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber 

door: 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into 
smiling 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it 
wore, — 

" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, 
" art sure no craven. 

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the 
Nightly shore : 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plu- 
tonian shore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
7 



POEMS 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse 

so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy 

bore; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human 

being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his 

chamber door, 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 

chamber door, 

With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke 

only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 

outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he 

fluttered. 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, — " Other friends 

have flown before ; 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have 

flown before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 

spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock 

and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one 

burden bore : 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden 

bore 

Of ' Never — nevermore.' " 
8 



THE RAVEN 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird 

and bust and door ; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to 

linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 

yore, 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous 

bird of yore 

Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex- 
pressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my 
bosom's core ; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease 
reclining 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light 
gloated o'er, 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light 
gloating o'er 

She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from 

an unseen censer 
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the 

tufted floor. 
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by 

these angels he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 

Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this 

lost Lenore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
9 



POEMS 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! prophet still, if 
bird or devil ! 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed 
thee here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
chanted — 

On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I 
implore : 

Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell 
me, I implore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil — prophet still, if 

bird or devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we 

both adore, 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant 

Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name 

Lenore : 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I 

shrieked, upstarting: 
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's 

Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 

hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above my 

door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 

from off my door ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
lo 



THE RAVEN 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 

sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber 

door; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 

dreaming, 
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his 

shadow on the floor : 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating 

on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 



BRIDAL BALLAD 

J. HE ring is on my hand, 
And the wreath is on my brow ; 

Satins and jewels grand 

Are all at my command, 
And I am happy now. 

And my lord he loves me well ; 

But, when hrst ne breathed his vow, 
I felt my bosom swell, 
For the words rang as a knell, 
And the voice seemed his who fell 
In the battle down the dell. 

And who is happy now. 

But he spoke to reassure me, 

And he kissed my pallid brow. 
While a revery came o'er me, 
And to the church-yard bore me, 
And I sighed to him before me, 
Thinking him dead D'Elormie, 
"Oh, I am happy now ! " 

And thus the words were spoken, 
And this the plighted vow; 

And though my faith be broken, 

And though my heart be broken, 

Here is a ring, as token 
That I am happy now ! 

12 



BRIDAL BALLAD 

Would God I could awaken ! 

For I dream I know not how, 
And my soul is sorely shaken 
Lest an evil step be taken, 
Lest the dead who is forsaken 

May not be happy now. 



THE SLEEPER 

At midnight, in the month of June, 
I stand beneath the mystic moon. 
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, 
Exhales from out her golden rim, 
And, softly dripping, drop by drop, 
Upon the quiet mountain-top, 
Steals drowsily and musically 
Into the universal valley. 
The rosemary nods upon the grave ; 
The lily lolls upon the wave ; 
Wrapping the fog about its breast, 
The ruin moulders into rest ; 
Looking like Lethe, see ! the lake 
A conscious slumber seems to take. 
And would not, for the world, awake. 
All beauty sleeps ! — and lo ! where lies 
Irene, with her destinies ! 

O lady bright ! can it be right. 
This window open to the night? 
The wanton airs, from the tree-top, 
Laughingly through the lattice drop; 
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout. 
Flit through thy chamber in and out, 
14 



THE SLEEPER 

And wave the curtain canopy 

So fitfully, so fearfully, 

Above the closed and fringed lid 

'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, 

That, o'er the floor and down the wall. 

Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall. 

O lady dear, hast thou no fear ? 

Why and what art thou dreaming here ? 

Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, 

A wonder to these garden trees ! 

Strange is thy pallor : strange thy dress : 

Strange, above all, thy length of tress. 

And this all solemn silentness ! 



The lady sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, 
Which is enduring, so be deep ! 
Heaven have her in its sacred keep ! 
This chamber changed for one more holy, 
This bed for one more melancholy, 
I pray to God that she may lie 
Forever with unopened eye. 
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by. 



My love, she sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, 
As it is lasting, so be deep ! 
Soft may the worms about her creep ! 
Far in the forest, dim and old. 
For her may some tall vault unfold : 
Some vault that oft hath flung its black 
And wingM panels fluttering back, 
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls 
Of her grand family funerals : 
Some sepulchre, remote, alone, 
IS 



POEMS 

Against whose portal she hath thrown, 
In childhood, many an idle stone : 
Some tomb from out whose sounding door 
She ne'er shall force an echo more. 
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin. 
It was the dead who groaned within I 



i6 



LENORE 



Ah, 



broken is the golden bowl ! the spirit flown 

forever ! 
Let the bell toll ! — a saintly soul floats on the 

Stygian river; 
And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear? — weep now 

or nevermore ! 
See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, 

Lenore ! 
Come, let the burial rite be read — the funeral song 

be sung : 
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so 

young, 
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so 

young. 

"Wretches, ye loved her for her wealth and hated 

her for her pride. 
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her — 

that she died ! 
How shall the ritual, then, be read? the requiem 

how be sung 
By you — by yours, the evil eye, — by yours, the 

slanderous tongue 
That did to death the innocence that died, and died 



so young ? " 



17 



POEMS 

Peccavimus ; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath 

song 
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no 

wrong. 
The sweet Lenore hath gone before, with Hope that 

flew beside, 
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have 

been thy bride : 
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly 

lies. 
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes ; 
The life still there, upon her hair — the death upon 

her eyes. 

"Let no bell toll, then, — lest her soul, amid its hal- 
lowed mirth. 
Should catch the note as it doth float up from the 

damned Earth ! 
And I ! — to-night my heart is light ! — no dirge will 

I upraise, 
But waft the angel on her flight with a Psean of old 

days ! 
Avaunt ! avaunt ! from fiends below, the indignant 

ghost is riven — 
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the 

Heaven — 
From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the 

King of Heaven!" 



l8 



DREAM-LAND 



B 



>Y a route obscure and lonely, 
Haunted by ill angels only, 
Where an Eidolon, named Night, 
On a black throne reigns upright, 
I have reached these lands but newly 
From an ultimate dim Thule : 
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, 
Out of Space — out of Time. 

Bottomless vales and boundless floods, 
And chasms and caves and Titan woods, 
With forms that no man can discover 
For the tears that drip all over ; 
Mountains toppling evermore 
Into seas without a shore ; 
Seas that restlessly aspire. 
Surging, unto skies of fire ; 
Lakes that endlessly outspread 
Their lone waters, lone and dead, — 
Their still waters, still and chilly 
With the snows of the lolling lily. 

By the lakes that thus outspread 
Their lone waters, lone and dead, — 
Their sad waters, sad and chilly 
With the snows of the lolling Hly; 
19 



POEMS 

By the mountains — near the river 
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever ; 
By the gray woods, by the swamp 
Where the toad and the newt encamp ; 
By the dismal tarns and pools 

Where dwell the Ghouls ; ' 

By each spot the most unholy. 
In each nook most melancholy, — 
There the traveller meets aghast 
Sheeted Memories of the Past : 
Shrouded forms that start and sigh 

As they pass the wanderer by, « 

White-robed forms of friends long given, 9 

In agony, to the Earth — and Heaven. 

For the heart whose woes are legion 

'T is a peaceful, soothing region ; 

For the spirit that walks in shadow 

'T is — oh, 't is an Eldorado ! 

But the traveller, travelling through it, 

May not — dare not openly view it; j 

Never its mysteries are exposed 

To the weak human eye unclosed ; i 

So wills its King, who hath forbid 

The uplifting of the fringed lid ; 

And thus the sad Soul that here passes 

Beholds it but through darkened glasses. 

By a route obscure and lonely. 
Haunted by ill angels only, 
Where an Eidolon, named Night, 
On a black throne reigns upright, 
I have wandered home but newly 
From this ultimate dim Thule. 
20 



THE VALLEY OF UNREST 



O 



NCE it smiled a silent dell 
Where the people did not dwell ; 
They had gone unto the wars, 
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, 
Nightly, from their azure towers, 
To keep watch above the flowers,' 
In the midst of which all day 
The red sunlight lazily lay. 
Now each visitor shall confess 
The sad valley's restlessness. 
Nothing there is motionless, 
Nothing save the airs that brood 
Over the magic solitude. 
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees 
That palpitate like the chill seas 
Around the misty Hebrides ! 
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven 
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven 
Uneasily, from morn till even, 
Over the violets there that lie 
In myriad types of the human eye. 
Over the lilies there that wave 
And weep above a nameless grave ! 
They wave : — from out their fragrant tops 
Eternal dews come down in drops. 
They weep : — from off their delicate stems 
Perennial tears descend in gems. 

21 



^ 



THE CITY IN THE SEA 



L, 



,0\ Death has reared himself a throne 
In a strange city lying alone 
Far down within the dim West, 

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best 
Have gone to their eternal rest. 
There shrines and palaces and towers 
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not) 
Resemble nothing that is ours. 
Around, by lifting winds forgot, 
Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 

No rays from the holy heaven come down 
On the long night-time of that town; 
But light from out the lurid sea 
Streams up the turrets silently, 
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free : 
Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls, 
Up fanes, up Babylon-like walls, 
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers, 
Up many and many a marvellous shrine 
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 
The viol, the violet, and the vine. 

Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 



THE CITY IN THE SEA 

So blend the turrets and shadows there 
That all seem pendulous in air, 
While from a proud tower in the town 
Death looks gigantically down. 

There open fanes and gaping graves 

Yawn level with the luminous waves ; 

But not the riches there that lie 

In each idol's diamond eye, — 

Not the gayly-jewelled dead, 

Tempt the waters from their bed; 

For no ripples curl, alas, 

Along that wilderness of glass ; 

No swellings tell that winds may be 

Upon some far-off happier sea; 

No heavings hint that winds have been 

On seas less hideously serene ! 

But lo, a stir is in the air ! 
The wave — there is a movement there! 
As if the towers had thrust aside, 
In slightly sinking, the dull tide ; 
As if their tops had feebly given 
A void within the filmy Heaven ! 
The waves have now a redder glow, 
The hours are breathing faint and low ; 
And when, amid no earthly moans, 
Down, down that town shall settle hence, 
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 
Shall do it reverence. 



23 



TO ZANTE 

Jr* AIR isle, that from the fairest of all flowers 

Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take, 
How many memories of what radiant hours 

At sight of thee and thine at once awake ! 
How many scenes of what departed bliss, 

How many thoughts of what entombed hopes, 
How many visions of a maiden that is 

No more — no more upon thy verdant slopes ! 
No more ! alas, that magical sad sound 

Transforming all ! Thy charms shall please no more, 
Thy memory no more. Accursed ground ! 

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, 
O hyacinthine isle ! O purple Zante I 
" Isola d'oro ! Fior di Levante ! " 






24 



SILENCE 

1 HERE are some qualities, some incorporate things, 

That have a double life, which thus is made 
A type of that twin entity which springs 

From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. 
There is a twofold Silence — sea and shore. 
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, 
Newly with grass o'ergrown ; some solemn graces, 
Some human memories and tearful lore, 
Render him terrorless : his name 's " No More." 
He is the corporate Silence : dread him not : 

No power hath he of evil in himself ; 
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot !) 

Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, 
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod 
No foot of man), commend thyself to God ! 



2S 



THE COLISEUM 

1 YPE of the antique Rome ! Rich reliquary 
Of lofty contemplation left to Time 
By buried centuries of pomp and power ! 
At length — at length — after so many days 
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst 
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie), 
I kneel, an altered and an humble man, 
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within 
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory. 

Vastness, and Age, and Memories of Eld ! 
Silence, and Desolation, and dim Night ! 
I feel ye now, I feel ye in your strength, 
O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king 
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane ! 
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee 
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars ! 



Here, where a hero fell, a column falls ; 
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, 
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat ; 
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair 
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle : 
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled. 
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, 
26 



THE COLISEUM 

Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, 
The swift and silent lizard of the stones. 

But stay ! these walls, these ivy-clad arcades, 

These mouldering plinths, these sad and blackened 

shafts, 
These vague entablatures, this crumbling frieze, 
These shattered cornices, this wreck, this ruin, 
These stones — alas ! these gray stones — are they all, 
All of the famed and the colossal left 
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me ? 

'' Not all " — the Echoes answer me — " not all ! 

Prophetic sounds and loud arise forever 

From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise. 

As melody from Memnon to the Sun. 

We rule the hearts of mightiest men — we rule 

With a despotic sway all giant minds. 

We are not impotent, we pallid stones : 

Not all our power is gone, not all our fame, 

Not all the magic of our high renown, 

Not all the wonder that encircles us. 

Not all the mysteries that in us lie, 

Not all the memories that hang upon 

And cling around about us as a garment, 

Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.'* 



HYMN 

J\T morn — at noon — at twilight dim, 
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn. 
In joy and woe, in good and ill, 
Mother of God, be with me still ! 
When the hours flew brightly by, 
And not a cloud obscured the sky. 
My soul, lest it should truant be. 
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee. 
Now, when storms of fate o'ercast 
Darkly my Present and my Past, 
Let my Future radiant shine 
With sweet hopes of thee and thine ! 



7^ 



ISRAFEL 

And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who 
has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures. 

Koran, 

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 
Whose heart-strings are a lute ; 

None sing so wildly well 

As the angel Israfel, 

And the giddy stars (so legends tell), 

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
Of his voice, all mute. 

Tottering above 

In her highest noon, 

The enamoured moon 
Blushes with love, 

While, to listen, the red levin 

(With the rapid Pleiads, even, 

Which were seven) 

Pauses in Heaven. 

And they say (the starry choir 
And the other listening things) 

That Israfeli's fire 

Is owing to that lyre 
By which he sits and sings, 

The trembling living wire 

Of those unusual strings. 
29 



POEMS 

But the skies that angel trod, 
Where deep thoughts are a duty, 

Where Love 's a grown-up God, 
Where the Houri glances are 

Imbued with all the beauty 
Which we worship in a star. 

Therefore thou art not wrong, 

Israfeli, who despisest 
An unimpassioned song; 
To thee the laurels belong, 

Best bard, because the wisest: 
Merrily live, and long ! 

The ecstasies above 
With thy burning measures suit: 

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
With the fervor of thy lute : 
Well may the stars be mute ! 

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this 
Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
Our flowers are merely — flowers, 

And the shadow of thy perfect Wiss 
Is the sunshine of ours. 

If I could dwell 
Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
He might not sing so wildly well 

A mortal melody. 
While a bolder note than this might swell 

From my lyre within the sky. 
30 



THE HAUNTED PALACE 

In the greenest of our valleys 

By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace — 

Radiant palace — reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion, 

It stood there ; 
Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair. 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow 
(This — all this — was in the olden 

Time long ago). 
And every gentle air that dallied. 

In that sweet day. 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley 

Through two luminous windows saw 
Spirits moving musically. 

To a lute's well-tun^d law, 
Round about a throne where, sitting, 

Porphyrogene, 
In state his glory well befitting. 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 
31 



POEMS 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door, 
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing. 
In voices of surpassing beauty, 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

Assailed the monarch's high estate; 
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 

Shall dawn upon him desolate ! ) 
And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed. 
Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers now within that valley 

Through the red-litten windows see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody ; 
While, like a ghastly rapid river, 

Through the pale door 
A hideous throng rush out forever, 

And laugh — but smile no more. 



3a 



THE CONQUEROR WORM 



Lo 



! 't is a gala night 

Within the lonesome latter years. 
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 

In veils, and drowned in tears, 
Sit in a theatre to see 

A play of hopes and fears, 
While the orchestra breathes fitfully 

The music of the spheres. 

Mimes, in the form of God on high, 

Mutter and mumble low, 
And hither and thither fly ; 

Mere puppets they, who come and go 
At bidding of vast formless things 

That shift the scenery to and fro, 
Flapping from out their condor wings 

Invisible Woe. 

That motley drama — oh, be sure 

It shall not be forgot ! 
With its Phantom chased for evermore 

By a crowd that seize it not, 
Through a circle that ever returneth in 

To the self-same spot ; 
And much of Madness, and more of Sin;, 

And Horror the soul of the plot. 
33 



POEMS 

But see amid the mimic rout j 

A crawling shape intrude : 1 

A blood-red thing that writhes from out I 

The scenic soHtude ! J 
It writhes — it writhes ! — with mortal pangs 

The mimes become its food, 

And seraphs sob at vermin fangs rj 

In human gore imbued. I 

Out — out are the lights — out all 1 

And over each quivering form 
The curtain, a funeral pall, 

Comes down with the rush of a storm, 
While the angels, all paUid and wan, 

Uprising, unveiling, affirm 
That the play is the tragedy, " Man," 

And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. 



^A 



ELDORADO 



G. 



AYLY bedight, 

A gallant knight, 
In sunshine and in shadow, 

Had journeyed long, 

Singing a song, 
In search of Eldorado. 

But he grew old, 

This knight so bold. 
And o'er his heart a shadow 

Fell as he found 

No spot of ground 
That looked like Eldorado. 

And, as his strength 

Failed him at length, 
He met a pilgrim shadow : 

" Shadow," said he, 

" Where can it be. 
This land of Eldorado ? " 

" Over the Mountains 

Of the Moon, 
Down the Valley of the Shadow, 

Ride, boldly ride," 

The shade replied, 
"If you seek for Eldorado ! " 
35 



EULALIE 

I DWELT alone 
In a world of moan, 
And my soul was a stagnant tide, 
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing 

bride, 
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smil- 
ing bride. 

Ah, less — less bright 
The stars of the night 
Than the eyes of the radiant girl ! 
And never a flake 
That the vapor can make 
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl 
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded 

curl. 
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most 
humble and careless curl. 

Now doubt — now pain 
Come never again, 
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh ; 
And all day long 
Shines, bright and strong, 
Astarte within the sky. 
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye. 
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye. 
36 



THE BELLS 



H 



EAR the sledges with the bells, 
Silver bells ! 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells J 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars, that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 



Hear the mellow wedding bells. 
Golden bells! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! 
From the molten-golden notes. 

And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 
37 



POEMS ^ 

f 

Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! ; 

How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells i 

Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing j ' 

Of the bells, bells, bells, M 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, " 

Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 

Ill 
Hear the loud alarum bells, 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak, i 

They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune. 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair ! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
38 



J 

V 

] 



THE BELLS 

Yet the ear it fully knows, 
By the twanging 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling 
And the wrangling, 
How the danger sinks and swells, — 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, 
Of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 

IV 

Hear the tolling of the bells. 
Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
In the silence of the night 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people. 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone. 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling 

In that muffled monotone. 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman, 
They are neither brute nor human. 
They are Ghouls: 
39 



POEMS 

And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
Rolls 

A paean from the bells ; 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells, 
And he dances, and he yells : 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the paean of the bells, 
Of the bells : 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells — 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 

As he knells, knells, knells, 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells : 

To the tolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
' Bells, bells, bells — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 



40 



ANNABEL LEE 

1 T was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child. 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee ; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this Was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her highborn kinsmen came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me ; 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know, 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
41 



POEMS 

t 

That the wind came out of the cloud by night„ > 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. ^ 

r 
But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we, ] 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 

In her sepulchre there by the sea. 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



42 



ULALUME 

JL HE skies they were ashen and sober; 

The leaves they were crisped and sere, 

The leaves they were withering and sere ; 
It was night in the lonesome October 

Of my most immemorial year ; 
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 

In the misty mid region of Weir : 
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

Here once, through an alley Titanic 

Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul — 
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 

These were days when my heart was volcanic 
As the scoriae rivers that roll, 
As the lavas that restlessly roll 

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 
In the ultimate climes of the pole. 

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 
In the realms of the boreal pole. 

Our talk had been serious and sober, 

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere, 
Our memories were treacherous and sere, 

For we knew not the month was October, 

And we marked not the night of the year, 
(Ah, night of all nights in the year !) 
43 



POEMS 

We noted not the dim lake of Auber 

(Though once we had journeyed down here), 
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber 

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

And now, as the night was senescent 

And star-dials pointed to morn, 

As the star-dials hinted of morn, 
At the end of our path a liquescent 

And nebulous lustre was born, 
Out of which a miraculous crescent 

Arose with a duplicate horn, 
Astarte's bediamonded crescent 

Distinct with its duplicate horn. 

And I said — " She is warmer than Dian : 

She rolls through an ether of sighs. 

She revels in a region of sighs : 
She has seen that the tears are not dry on 

These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 
And has come past the stars of the Lion 

To point us the path to the skies. 

To the Lethean peace of the skies : 
Come up, in despite of the Lion, 

To shine on us with her bright eyes : 
Come up through the lair of the Lion, 

With love in her luminous eyes." 

But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 

Said — " Sadly tliis star I mistrust. 
Her pallor I strangely mistrust : 

Oh, hasten ! — oh, let us not linger ! 

Oh, fly ! — let us fly ! — - for we must." 
44 



ULALUME 

In terror she spoke, letting sink her 

Wings until they trailed in the dust ; 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 

Plumes till they trailed in the dust, 
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 

I replied — " This is nothing but dreaming: 

Let us on by this tremulous light ! 

Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! 
Its sibyllic splendor is beaming 

With hope and in beauty to-night : 

See, it flickers up the sky through the night ! 
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 

And be sure it will lead us aright : 
We safely may trust to a gleaming 

That cannot but guide us aright, 

Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.' 

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her. 
And tempted her out of her gloom, 
And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 

And we passed to the end of the vista, 

But were stopped by the door of a tomb, 
By the door of a legended tomb ; 

And I said — "What is written, sweet sister, 
On the door of this legended tomb ? " 
She replied — " Ulalume — Ulalume — 
'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume ! " 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 

As the leaves that were crisped and sere, 
As the leaves that were withering and sere, 

And I cried — " It was surely October 
On this very night of last year 
45 



POEMS 

That I journeyed — I journeyed down here, 
That I brought a dread burden down here : 
On this night of all nights in the year, 
Ah, what demon has tempted me here ? 

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, 
This misty mid region of Weir : 

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, 
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 



46 



II 

SCENES FROM "POLITIAN" 



47 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE 



PoLiTiAN, Earl of Leicester 

Di Broglio, a Roman Duke 

Count Castiglione, his Son 

Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey, Friend to Politian 

A Monk 

Lalage 

Alessandra, betrothed to Castiglione 

Jacinta, Maid to Lalage 

The Scene Ues in Rome 



SCENES FROM *' POLITIAN 

AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA 



ROME.— A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione. 
ALESSANDRA 

Thou art sad, Castiglione. 

CASTIGLIONE 

Sad! — not I. 
Oh, I 'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome ! 
A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra, 
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy ! 

ALESSANDRA 

Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing 
Thy happiness ! — what ails thee, cousin of mine? 
Why didst thou sigh so deeply ? 

CASTIGLIONE 

Did I sigh ? 
I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, 
A silly — a most silly fashion I have 
When I am very happy. Did I sigh ? {sighing) 
49 



POEMS 
ALESSANDRA 

Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged 

Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. 

Late hours and wine, Castiglione, — these 

Will ruin thee ! thou art already altered ; 

Thy looks are haggard ; nothing so wears away 

The constitution as late hours and wine. 

CASTIGLIONE iinusing) 
Nothing, fair cousin, nothing, not even deep sorrow, 
Wears it away like evil hours and wine. 
I will amend. 

ALESSANDRA 

Do it ! I would have thee drop 
Thy riotous company, too — fellows low bom ; 
111 suit the like with old Di Broglio's heir 
And Alessandra's husband. 

CASTIGLIONE 

I will drop them. 

ALESSANDRA 

Thou wilt — thou must. Attend thou also more 
To thy dress and equipage ; they are over plain 
For thy lofty rank and fashion ; much depends 
Upon appearances. 

CASTIGLIONE 

I '11 see to it. 

ALESSANDRA 

Then see to it ! pay more attention, sir. 

To a becoming carriage ; much thou wantest 

In dignity. 

50 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN " 
CASTIGLIONE 

Much, much, oh, much I want 
In proper dignity. 

ALES SANDRA (haughtily) 

Thou mockest me, sir ! 

CASTIGLIONE {abstractedly) 
Sweet, gentle Lalage ! 

ALESSANDRA 

Heard I aright? 
I speak to him — he speaks of Lalage ! 
Sir Count ! {places her hand on his shoulder) what art 

thou dreaming ? {aside) He 's not well ! 
What ails thee, sir ? 

CASTIGLIONE {starting) 
Cousin ! fair cousin ! — madam ! 
I crave thy pardon — indeed, I am not well. 
Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please. 
This air is most oppressive. — Madam — the Duke ! 

Ettter Di Broglio 

DI BROGLIO 

My son, I've news for thee! — hey.? — ^ what's the 

matter ? {observing alessandra) 
I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione ! kiss her, 
You dog ! and make it up, I say, this minute ! 
I 've news for you both. Politian is expected 
Hourly in Rome — Politian, Earl of Leicester. 
We '11 have him at the wedding. 'T is his iBrst visit 
To the imperial city. 

51 



POEMS 
ALESSANDRA 

What! Politian 
Of Britain, Earl of Leicester ? 

DI BROGLIO 

The same, my love. 
We '11 have him at the wedding. A man quite young 
In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him, 
But rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy 
Preeminent in arts and arms, and wealth, 
And high descent. We '11 have him at the wedding. 

ALESSANDRA 

I have heard much of this Pohtian. 
Gay, volatile, and giddy, is he not, 
And little given to thinking ? 

DI BROGLIO 

P'ar from it, love. 
No branch, they say, of all philosophy 
So deep abstruse he has not mastered it. 
Learned as few are learned. 

ALESSANDRA 

'T is very strange ! 
I have known men have seen Politian 
And sought his company. They speak of him 
As of one who entered madly into life, 
Drinking the. cup of pleasure to the dregs. 

CASTIGLIONE 

Ridiculous ! Now / have seen Politian 

And know him well : nor learned nor mirthful he. 

He is a dreamer, and a man shut out 

From common passions. 

52 



SCENES FROxM " POLITIAN 



DI BROGLIO 



Children, we disagree. 
Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air 
Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear 
Politian was a melancholy man ? \exeunt. 



II 

A lady's apartment, with a window open and looking into a 
garden. Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on 
which lie some books and a hand-mirror. In the background 
Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair. 

LALAGE 

Jacinta! is it thou? 

JACINTA {pertly) 

Yes, ma'am, I ^m here. 

LALAGE 

I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. 
Sit down — let not my presence trouble you — 
Sit down — for I am humble, most humble. 

JACINTA {aside) 
'T is time. 

(Jacinta seats herself ma sidelong 7nanner upon 
the chair ^ resting her elbows upon the back, and 
regarding her mistress with a contemptuous 
look. Lalage continues to read) 

LALAGE 

" It in another climate, so he said. 

Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil ! " 

{pauses., turns over some leaves, and resumes) 
" No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower, 
53 



POEMS 

But Ocean ever to refresh mankind 

Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind." 

Oh, beautiful ! most beautiful ! how like 

To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven ! 

O happy land ! {pauses) 

She died — the maiden died ! 
O still more happy maiden who couldst die ! 
Jacinta ! 

(Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage pres- 
ently resumes) 

Again, — a similar tale 
Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea. 
Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the 

play, — 
" She died full young ; " one Bossola answers him, — 
" I think not so — her infelicity 
Seemed to have years too many." — Ah, luckless lady 
Jacinta ! {still no answer) 

Here 's a far sterner story, 
But like — oh, very like — in its despair, 
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily 
A thousand hearts — losing at length her own. 
She died. Thus endeth the history, and her maids 
Lean over her and weep, two gentle maids 
With gentle names — Eiros and Charmion : 
Rainbow and Dove ! 

Jacinta ! 

JACINTA {pettishly) 

Madam, what zi- it? 

LALAGE 

Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind 
As go down in the library and bring me 
The Holy Evangelists ? 

54 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN " 
JACINTA 

Pshaw I [exit. 

LALAGE 

If there be balm 
For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there. 
Dew in the night-time of my bitter trouble 
Will there be found, — "dew sweeter far than that 
Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill." 
i^e-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table) 

JACINTA 

There, ma'am, 's the book, {aside) Indeed, she is very 
troublesome. 

LALAGE {astonished) 
What did'st thou say, Jacinta ? Have I done aught 
To grieve thee or to vex thee ? — I am sorry. 
For thou hast served me long and ever been 
Trustworthy and respectful, {resumes her reading) 

JACINTA {aside) 

I can't believe 
She has any more jewels — no — no — she gave me all. 

LALAGE 

What didst thou say, Jacinta ? Now I bethink me, 
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. 
How fares good Ugo, and when is it to be ? 
Can I do aught, is there no further aid 
Thou needest, Jacinta ? 

JACINTA {aside) 

" Is there no further aid ? " 
That's meant for me. {aloud) I 'm sure, madam, you 

need not 
Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. 
SI 



POEMS 
LALAGE 

Jewels, Jacinta ! Now, indeed, Jacinta, 
I thought not of the jewels. 

JACINTA 

Oh ! perhaps not ! 
But then I might have sworn it. After all, 
There 's Ugo says the ring is only paste, 
For he 's sure the Count Castighone never 
Would have given a real diamond to such as you ; 
And at the best I 'm certain, madam, you cannot 
Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it. 

{exit. 
(Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon 
the table J after a short pause 7'aises it) 

lalage 
Poor Lalage ! and is it come to this ? — 
Thy servant maid ! — but courage ! — 't is but a viper 
Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul ! 

{taking up the inirror) 
Ha ! here at least 's a friend — too much a friend 
In earlier days — a friend will not deceive thee. 
Fair mirror and true ! now tell me (for thou canst) 
A tale, a pretty tale — and heed thou not 
Though it be rife with woe. It answers me. 
It speaks of sunken eyes and wasted cheeks, 
And Beauty long deceased — remembers me 
Of Joy departed — Hope, the seraph Hope, 
Inurned and entombed : — now, in a tone 
Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible, 
Whispers of early grave untimely yawning 
For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true, thou liest not ; 
Thoti hast no end to gain, no heart to break ; 
S6 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN ' 

Castiglione lied who said he loved ; 
Thou true — he false, false, false ! 

{ivhiie she speaks, a monk enters her apartment, 
and approaches unobserved) 

MONK 

Refuge thou hast, 
Sweet daughter, in Heaven. Think of eternal things, 
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray ! 

LALAGE {arising hurriedly^ 
I cannot pray ! My soul is at war with God ! 
The frightful sounds of merriment below 
Disturb my senses — go ! I cannot pray ; 
The sweet airs from the garden worry me ; 
Thy presence grieves me — go! thy priestly raiment 
Fills me with dread, thy ebony crucifix 
With horror and awe ! 

MONK 

Think of thy precious soul ! 

LALAGE 

Think of my early days ! think of my father 

And mother in Heaven ; think of our quiet home, 

And the rivulet that ran before the door ; 

Think of my little sisters — think of them ! 

And think of me ! think of my trusting love 

And confidence — his vows — my ruin — think — think 

Of my unspeakable misery ! — begone ! 

Yet stay, yet stay ! — what was it thou saidst of prayer 

And penitence ? Didst thou not speak of faith 

And vows before the throne ? 

MONK 

I did. 
SI 



POEMS 
LALAGE 

'T is well. 
There is a vow were fitting should be made, 
A sacred vow, imperative and urgent, 
A solemn vow ! 

MONK 

Daughter, this zeal is well. 

LALAGE 

Father, this zeal is anything but well. 

Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing, 

A crucifix whereon to register 

This sacred vow ? (Jie hands her his owii) 

Not that — oh, no ! — no ! — no ! 
{shuddering) 
Not that ! Not that ! — I tell thee, holy man, 
Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me. 
Stand back ! I have a crucifix myself, — 
/ have a crucifix ! Methinks 't were fitting 
The deed, the vow, the symbol of the deed, 
And the deed 's register should tally, father ! 

{draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high) 
Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine 
Is written in Heaven ! 

MONK 

Thy words are madness, daughter, 
And speak a purpose unholy — thy lips are livid — 
Thine eyes are wild — tempt not the wrath divine ! 
Pause ere too late ! — oh, be not — be not rash ! 
Swear not the oath — oh, swear it not ! 

LALAGE 

'Tis sworn. 
58 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN 

III 

An apartment in a palace. Politian and Baldazzar. 
BALDAZZAR 

Arouse thee now, Politian ! 
Thou must not — nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not 
Give way unto these humors. Be thyself. 
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, 
And live, for now thou diest. 

POLITIAN 

Not so, Baldazzar. 
Surely I live. 

BALDAZZAR 

Politian, it doth grieve me 
To see thee thus. 

POLITIAN 

Baldazzar, it doth grieve me 
To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend. 
Command me, sir ! what wouldst thou have me do ? 
At thy behest I will shake off that nature 
Which from my forefathers I did Inherit, 
Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe, 
And be no more Politian, but some other 
Command me, sir ! 

BALDAZZAR 

To the field then — to the field — 
To the senate or the field. 

59 



POEMS 
POLITIAN 

Alas ! alas ! 
There is an imp would follow me even there; 
There is an imp hath followed me even there ; 
There is — what voice was that ? 

BALDAZZAR 

I heard it not 
I heard not any voice except thine own, 
And the echo of thine own. 

POLITIAN 

Then I but dreamed. 

BALDAZZAR 

Give not thy soul to dreams! the camp, the court, 
Befit thee ; Fame awaits thee ; Glory calls, — 
And her, the trumpet-tongued, thou wilt not hear 
In hearkening to imaginary sounds 
And phantom voices. 

POLITIAN 

It is a phantom voice ! — 
Didst thou not hear it then ? 

BALDAZZAR 

I heard it not. 

POLITIAN 

Thou heardst it not ! — Baldazzar, speak no more 
To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts. 
Oh ! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death, 
Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities 
Of the populous earth. Bear with me yet awhile ! 
60 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN " 

We have been boys together — school-fellows, 
And now are friends, yet shall not be so long; 
For in the eternal city thou shalt do me 
A kind and gentle office ; and a Power — 
A Power august, benignant and supreme — 
Shall then absolve thee of all further duties 
Unto thy friend. 

BALDAZZAR 

Thou speakest a fearful riddle 
I will not understand. 

POLITIAN 

Yet now as fate 
Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low, 
The sands of time are changed to golden grains 
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas ! alas ! 
I cannot die, having within my heart 
So keen a relish for the beautiful 
As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air 
Is balmier now than it was wont to be ; 
Rich melodies are floating in the winds ; 
A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth, 
And with a holier lustre the quiet moon 
Sitteth in Heaven. — Hist! hist! thou canst not say 
Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar ? 

BALDAZZAR 

Indeed, I hear not. 

POLITIAN 

Not hear it ! — listen now — listen ! — the faintest 

sound 
And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard ! 
A lady's voice I and sorrow in the tone ! — 
6i 



POEMS 

Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell ! 
Again ! again ! how solemnly it falls 
Into my heart of hearts ! that eloquent voice 
Surely I never heard — yet it were well, 
Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones 
In earlier days. 

BALDAZZAR 

I myself hear it now. 
Be still ! — the voice, if I mistake not greatly, 
Proceeds from yonder lattice, which you may see 
Very plainly through the window ; it belongs — 
Does it not — unto this palace of the Duke? 
The singer is undoubtedly beneath 
The roof of His Excellency, and perhaps 
Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke 
As the betrothed of Castiglione, 
His son and heir. 

POLITIAN 

Be still ! — it comes again. 

VOICE {very faintly) 
"And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus, 
Who have loved thee so long 
In wealth and woe among? 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus? 

Say nay — say nay ! " 

BALDAZZAR 

The song is English, and I oft have heard it 
In merry England — never so plaintively. 
Hist ! hist ! it comes again. 
62 



1 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN " 

VOICE {tnore loudly) 
" Is it so strong 
As for to leave me thus, 
Who have loved thee so long 
In wealth and woe among? 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus ? 

Say nay — say nay ! ** 

BALDAZZAR 

'T is hushed, and all is still ! 

POLITIAN 

All is not still. 

BALDAZZAR 

Let us go down. 

POLITIAN 

Go down, Baldazzar, go I 

BALDAZZAR 

The hour is growing late — the Duke awaits us ; 
Thy presence is expected in the hall 
Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian ? 

VOICE (distinctly) 
" Who have loved thee so long, 
In wealth and woe among ! 
And is thy heart so strong ? 

Say nay — say nay ! '* 

BALDAZZAR 

Let us descend ! — 't is time. Politian, give 
These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray, 
Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness 
Unto the Duke. Arouse thee, and remember 1 
63 



POEMS 
POLITIAN 

Remember ? I do. Lead on ! I do remember. 

igoing) 
Let us descend. Believe me, I would give, 
Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom 
To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice ; 
" To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear 
Once more that silent tongue." 

BALDAZZAR 

Let me beg you, sir. 
Descend with me — the Duke may be offended. 
Let us go down, I pray you. 

VOICE {loudly) 

" Say nay ! — say nay ! " 

POLITIAN {aside) 
'T is strange ! — 't is very strange — methought the 

voice 
Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay. 

{approaching the window) 
Sweet voice ! I heed thee, and will surely stay. 
Now be this fancy, by Heaven, or be it fate, 
Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make 
Apology unto the Duke for me; 
I go not down to-night. 

BALDAZZAR 

Your lordship's pleasure 
Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian. 

POLITIAN 

Good-night, my friend, good-night 
64 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN 

IV 

The gardens of a palace — moonlight. Lalage and Politian. 
LALAGE 

And dost thou speak of love 
To me^ Politian? — dost thou speak of love 
To Lalage ? — ah, woe — ah, woe is me ! 
This mockery is most cruel, most cruel indeed ! 

POLITIAN 

Weep not ! oh, sob not thus ! — thy bitter tears 

Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage ; 

Be comforted ! I know — I know it all, 

And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest 

And beautiful Lalage ! turn here thine eyes ! 

Thou askest me if I could speak of love, 

Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen. 

Thou askest me that — and thus I answer thee. 

Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (kneeling) 

Sweet Lalage, / love thee — love thee — love thee; 

Through good and ill, through weal and woe, I love thee* 

Not mother, with her first-born on her knee. 

Thrills with intenser love than I for thee. 

Not on God's altar, in any time or clime, 

Burned there a holier fire than burneth now 

Within my spirit for thee. And do I love ? {arising) 

Even for thy woes I love thee — even for thy woes — 

Thy beauty, and thy woes. 

LALAGE 

Alas, proud Earl, 
Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me ! 
How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens 

65 



POEMS 

Pure and reproachless of thy princely line, 

Could the dishonored Lalage abide, 

Thy wife, and with a tainted memory ? — 

My seared and blighted name, how would it tally 

With the ancestral honors of thy house. 

And with thy glory ? 

POLITIAN 

Speak not to me of glory! 
I hate — I loathe the name ; I do abhor 
The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. 
Art thou not Lalage and I Politian ? 
Do I not love — art thou not beautiful — 
What need we more? Ha! glory! — now speak not 

of it: 
By all I hold most sacred and most solemn. 
By all my wishes now, my fears hereafter. 
By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven. 
There is no deed I would more glory in 
Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory 
And trample it under foot. What matters it. 
What matters it, my fairest and my best. 
That we go down unhonored and forgotten 
Into the dust — so we descend together? 
Descend together — and then — and then, perchance — 

LALAGE 

Why dost thou pause, Politian ? 

POLITIAN 

And then, perchance, 
Arise together, Lalage, and roam 
The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, 

And still 

66 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN 
LALAGE 

Why dost thou pause, Politian ? 

POLITIAN 

And still together — together I 

LALAGE 

Now, Earl of Leicester, 
Thou lovest me ! and in my heart of hearts 
I feel thou lovest me truly. 

POLITIAN 

Oh, Lalage ! {throwing himself upon his knee) 
And lovest thou me f 

LALAGE 

Hist ! hush ! within the gloom 
Of yonder trees methought a figure passed — 
A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless. 
Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless. 
{walks across and returns) 
I was mistaken — 't was but a giant bough 
Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian ! 

POLITIAN 

My Lalage — my love ! why art thou moved ? 
Why dost thou turn so pale .'' Not Conscience' self, 
Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it, 
Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind 
Is chilly, and these melancholy boughs 
Throw over all things a gloom. 

LALAGE 

Politian ! 
Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land 
With which all tongues are busy, a land new found, 
67 



POEMS 

Miraculously found by one of Genoa, 

A thousand leagues within the golden west ? 

A fairy land of flowers and fruit and sunshine, 

And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests, 

And mountains, around whose towering summits the 

winds 
Of Heaven untrammelled flow — which air to breathe 
Is happiness now, and will be freedom hereafter 
In days that are to come ? 

POLITIAN 

Oh, wilt thou, wilt thou 
Fly to that Paradise, my Lalage — wilt thou 
Fly thither with me? There care shall be forgotten, 
And sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. 
And life shall then be mine, for I will live 
For thee, and in thine eyes ; and thou shalt be 
No more a mourner, but the radiant Joys 
Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope 
Attend thee ever ; and I will kneel to thee 
And worship thee, and call thee my beloved. 
My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife, 
My all ; — oh, wilt thou — wilt thou, Lalage, 
Fly thither with me ? 

LALAGE 

A deed is to be done — 
Castiglione lives ! 

POLITIAN 

And he shall die ! [exz/. 

LALAGE {after a pause) 
" And — he — shall — die ! " — alas ! 
Castiglione die ? Who spoke the words ? 
68 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN " 

Where am I ? — what was it he said ? — Politian ! 

Thou art not gone — thou art not gone, Politian ! 

I feel thou art not gone — yet dare not look, 

Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go 

With those words upon thy lips. Oh, speak to me ! 

And let me hear thy voice — one word, one word, 

To say thou art not gone — one little sentence. 

To say how thou dost scorn, how thou dost hate 

My womanly weakness. Ha ! ha ! thou art not gone — 

Oh, speak to me ! I knew thou wouldst not go ! 

I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go ! 

Villain, thou art not gone ^ — thou mockest me ! 

And thus I clutch thee — thus! — He is gone, he is 

gone — 
Gone — gone ! Where am I ? — 't is well — 't is very 

well! 
So that the blade be keen, the blow be sure, 
'T is well, 't is very well — alas ! alas ! 

V 

The suburbs. Politian alone. 
POLITIAN 

This weakness grows upon me. I am faint. 
And much, I fear me, ill — it will not do 
To die ere I have lived ! Stay, stay thy hand, 
O Azrael, yet awhile ! Prince of the Powers 
Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me ! 
Oh, pity me! let me not perish now, 
In the budding of my Paradisal Hope ! 
Give me to live yet — yet a little while I 
»T is I who pray for life, I who so late 
Demanded but to die ! 

69 



POEMS 

Enter Baldazzar 

What sayeth the Count ? 

(baldazzar) 
That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud 
Between the Earl Politian and himself, 
He doth decline your cartel. 

POLITIAN 

What didst thou say ? 
What answer was it you brought me, good Bal- 
dazzar ? — 
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes 
Laden from yonder bowers ! a fairer day, 
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks, 
No mortal eyes have seen! — what said the Count? 

BALDAZZAR 

That he, Castiglione, not being aware 

Of any feud existing, or any cause 

Of quarrel, between your lordship and himself. 

Cannot accept the challenge. 



Ill POLITIAN 

Ml 



It is most true — 
All this is very true. — When saw you, sir. 
When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid 
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately, 
A heaven so calm as this, so utterly free 
From the evil taint of clouds ? — and he did say ? 

BALDAZZAR 

No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir : 
The Count Castiglione will not fight, 
Having no cause for quarrel. 
70 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN " 
POLITIAN 

Now this is true — 
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar, 
And I have not forgotten it ; thou 'It do me 
A piece of service ? Wilt thou go back and say 
Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester, 
Hold him a villain ? thus much, 1 prythee, say 
Unto the Count — it is exceeding just 
He should have cause for quarrel. 

BALDAZZAR 

My lord ! my friend ! — 

POLITIAN {aside) 

*Tis he — he comes himself! {aloud) Thou reason- 
est well. 

I know what thou wouldst say — not send the mes- 
sage — 

Well ! — I will think of it — I will not send it. 

Now, prythee, leave me — hither doth come a person 

With whom affairs of a most private nature 

I would adjust. 

BALDAZZAR 

I go — to-morrow we meet — 
Do we not? — at the Vatican — 

POLITIAN 

At the Vatican. 

{exit BALDAZZAR. 

Enter Castiglione 

CASTIGLIONE 

The Earl of Leicester here ! 
71 



POEMS 
POLITIAN 

I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest — 
Dost thou not ? — that I am here. 

CASTIGLIONE 

My lord, some strange, 
Some singular mistake — misunderstanding — 
Hath without doubt arisen; thou hast been urged 
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address 
Some words most unaccDuntable, in writing, 
To me, Castiglione ; the bearer being 
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware 
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing, 
Having given thee no offence. Ha ! — am I right.'* 
'T was a mistake ? — undoubtedly — we all 
Do err at times. 

POLITIAN 

Draw, villain, and prate no more! 

CASTIGLIONE 

Ha ! — draw ? — and villain ? have at thee then at once, 
Proud Earl ! (draws) 

POLITIAN {drawing) 

Thus to the expiatory tomb, 
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee 
In the name of Lalage ! 

CASTIGLIONE {UttUig fall his sword and recoiling 
to the extremity of the stage) 
Of Lalage ! 
Hold off thy sacred hand ! — avaunt, I say ! 
Avaunt — I will not fight thee — indeed, I dare not. 
72 



SCENES FROM "POLITIAN " 
POLITIAN 

Thou wilt not fight with me, didst say, Sir Count? 
Shall I be baffled thus ? — now this is well ; 
Didst say thou darest not ? Ha ! 

CASTIGLIONE 

I dare not — dare not — 
Hold off thy hand — with that beloved name 
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee. 
I cannot — dare not. 

POLITIAN 

Now by my halidom 
I do believe thee ! — coward, I do believe thee ! 

CASTIGLIONE 

Ha ! — coward ! — this may not be ! 

{clutches his sword and staggers towards PoLl- 
TIAN, but his purpose is changed before reaching 
him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of 
the Earl) 

Alas ! my lord, 
It is — it is — most true. In such a cause 
I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me ! 

POLITIAN {greatly softened) 
Alas ! — I do — indeed I pity thee. 

CASTIGLIONE 

And Lalage — 

POLITIAN 

Scoundrel ! — arise and die ! 
73 



POEMS 
CASTIGLIONE 

It needeth not be ; thus — thus — oh, let me die 

Thus on my bended knee ! It were most fitting 

That in this deep humiliation I perish ; 

For in the fight I will not raise a hand 

Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home — 

{baring his bosojn) 
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon — 
Strike home. I will not fight thee. 

POLITIAN 

Now, 's death and hell ! 
Am I not — am I not sorely — grievously tempted 
To take thee at thy word ? But mark me, sir : 
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare 
For public insult in the streets before 
The eyes of the citizens. I '11 follow thee — 
Like an avenging spirit I '11 follow thee 
Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest, 
Before all Rome I '11 taunt thee, villain, — I '11 taunt thee. 
Dost hear ? with cowardice — thou wilt not fight me t 
Thou liest ! thou shalt ! {exit. 

CASTIGLIONE 

Now this, indeed, is just — 
Most righteous, and most just — avenging Heaven ! 



74 



Ill 

INVOCATIONb 



75 



INVOCATIONS 



TO HELEN 



JlI ELEN, thy beauty is to me 
Like those Nicaean barks of yore, 

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore 
To his own native shore. 

On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 

Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home 
To the glory that was Greece 
And the grandeur that was Rome. 

Lo ! in yon brilliant window-niche 
How statue-like I see thee stand, 

The agate lamp within thy hand ! 
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 
Are Holy Land ! 



n 



TO F 

JdELOVED 1 amid the earnest woes 
That crowd around my earthly path 

(Drear path, alas ! where grows 

Not even one lonely rose), 
My soul at least a solace hath 

In dreams of thee, and therein knows 

An Eden of bland repose. 

And thus thy memory is to me 
Like some enchanted far-off isle 

In some tumultuous sea, — 

Some ocean throbbing far and free 
With storms, but where meanwhile 

Serenest skies continually 
Just o'er that one bright island smile. 



78 



TO ONE IN PARADISE 

1 HOU wast all that to me, love, 

For which my soul did pine : 
A green isle in the sea, love, 

A fountain and a shrine 
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, 

And all the flowers were mine. 

Ah, dream too bright to last ! 

Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise 
But to be overcast ! 

A voice from out the Future cries, 
*' On ! on ! " — but o'er the Past 

(Dim gulf ! ) my spirit hovering lies 
Mute, motionless, aghast. 

For, alas ! alas ! with me 

The light of Life is o'er ! 
No more — no more — no more — 
(Such language holds the solemn sea 

To the sands upon the shore) 
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, 

Or the stricken eagle soar. 

And all my days are trances, 
And all my nightly dreams 
79 



INVOCATIONS 



Are where thy gray eye glances, 
And where thy footstep gleams ■ 

In what ethereal dances, 
By what eternal streams. 



80 



TO F s S. O d 

1 HOU wouldst be loved? — then let th^ heart 

From its present pathway part not : 
Being everything which now thou art, 

Be nothing which thou art not. 
So with the world thy gentle ways, 

Thy grace, thy more than beauty, 
Shall be an endless theme of praise, 

And love — a simple duty. 



81 



A VALENTINE 

Jr OR her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, 

Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda, 
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies 

Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader. 
Search narrowly the lines ! they hold a treasure 

Divine, a talisman, an amulet 
That must be worn at heart. Search well the meas- 
ure — 

The words — the syllables. Do not forget 
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor : 

And yet there is in this no Gordian knot 
Which one might not undo without a sabre, 

If one could merely comprehend the plot. 
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering 

Eyes scintillating soul, there We perdus 
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing 

Of poets, by poets — as the name is a poet's, too. 
Its letters, although naturally lying 

Like the knight Pinto, Mendez Ferdinando, 
Still form a synonym for Truth. — Cease trying ! 

You will not read the riddle, though you do the best 
you can do. 



82 



AN ENIGMA 



"Si 



>ELDOM we find," says Solomon Don Dunce, 
" Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. 
Through all the flimsy things we see at once 
As easily as through a Naples bonnet — 
Trash of all trash ! how can a lady don it ? 
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff, 
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff 

Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it." 
And, veritably, Sol is right enough. 
The general tuckermanities are arrant 
Bubbles, ephemeral and so transparent ; 

But this is, now, you may depend upon it, 
Stable, opaque, immortal — all by dint 
Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't. 



83 



TO HELEN 

1 SAW thee once —once only — years ago : 

I must not say how many — but not many. 

It was a July midnight ; and from out 

A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring 

Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, 

There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, 

With quietude and sultriness and slumber, 

Upon the upturned faces of a thousand 

Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, 

Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe : 

Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 

That gave out, in return for the love-light, 

Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death ; 

Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 

That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted 

By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. 

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank 

I saw thee half reclining ; while the moon 

Fell on the upturned faces of the roses, 

And on thine own, upturned — alas, in sorrow ! 

Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight — 
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) 
84 



TO HELEN 

That bade me pause before that garden-gate 

To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses ? 

No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, 

Save only thee and me — O Heaven I O God ! 

How my heart beats in coupling those two words ! — 

Save only thee and me. I paused, I looked, 

And in an instant all things disappeared. 

(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted !) 

The pearly lustre of the moon went out: 

The mossy banks and the meandering paths, 

The happy flowers and the repining trees, 

Were seen no more : the very roses' odors 

Died in the arms of the adoring airs. 

All, all expired save thee — save less than thou : 

Save only the divine light in thine eyes, * I 

Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes : \ 

I saw but them — they were the world to me : J 

I saw but them, saw only them for hours, J 

Saw only them until the moon went down. \jg 

What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten ** 

Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres ; „ 

How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope ; gj 

How silently serene a sea of pride ; ' 

How daring an ambition ; yet how deep, 

How fathomless a capacity for love ! 

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, 
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud ; 
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees 
Didst gHde away. Only thine eyes remained : 
They would not go — they never yet have gone ; 
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, 
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since ; 
They follow me — they lead me through the years; 



INVOCATIONS 

They are my ministers — yet I their slave ; 
Their office is to illumine and enkindle — 
My duty, to be saved by their bright light, 
And purified in their electric fire, 
And sanctified in their elysian fire ; 
They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope). 
And are, far up in heaven, the stars I kneel to 
In the sad, silent watches of my night; 
While even in the meridian glare of day 
I see them still — two sweetly scintillant 
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun. 



86 



TO 

1 HEED not that my earthly lot 

Hath little of Earth in it, 
That years of love have been forgot 

In the hatred of a minute : 
I mourn not that the desolate 

Are happier, sweet, than I, 
But that you sorrow for my fate 

Who am a passer-by. 



^7 



TO M. L. 



O 



F all who hail thy presence as the morning ; 
Of all to whom thine absence is the night, 
The blotting utterly from out high heaven 
The sacred sun ; of all who, weeping, bless thee 
Hourly for hope, for life, ah ! above all, 
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith 
In truth, in virtue, in humanity; 
Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed 
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen 
At thy soft-murmured words, " Let there be light ! " 
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled 
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes ; 
Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude 
Nearest resembles worship, oh, remember 
The truest, the most fervently devoted, 
And think that these weak lines are written by him : 
By him, who, as he pens them, thrills to think 
His spirit is communing with an angel's. 



88 



TO 

IN OT long ago the writer of these Hnes, 

In the mad pride of intellectuality, 

Maintained " the power of words " — denied that ever 

A thought arose within the human brain 

Beyond the utterance of the human tongue : 

And now, as if in mockery of that boast. 

Two words, two foreign soft dissyllables, 

Italian tones, made only to be murmured 

By angels dreaming in the moonht " dew 

That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill," 

Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart 

Unthought-like thoughts, that are the souls of 

thought, — 
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions 
Than even the seraph harper, Israfel 
(Who has " the sweetest voice of all God's creatures "), 
Could hope to utter. And I — my spells are broken ; 
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand ; 
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, 
I cannot write — I cannot speak or think — 
Alas, I cannot feel ; for 'tis not feeling, — 
This standing motionless upon the golden 
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams, 
Gazing entranced adown the gorgeous vista, 
And thrilling as I see, upon the right, 
Upon the left, and all the way along, 
Amid empurpled vapors, far away 
To where the prospect terminates — thee only. 
89 



FOR ANNIE 

1 HANK Heaven ! the crisis, 

The danger, is past, 
And the lingering illness 

Is over at last, 
And the fever called " Living " 

Is conquered at last. 

Sadly I know 

I am shorn of my strength, 
And no muscle I move 

As I lie at full length : 
But no matter ! — I feel 

I am better at length. 

And I rest so composedly 

Now, in my bed. 
That any beholder 

Might fancy me dead. 
Might start at beholding me, 

Thinking me dead. 

The moaning and groaning, 
The sighing and sobbing, 

Are quieted now, 

With that horrible throbbing 

At heart : — ah, that horrible, 
Horrible throbbing ! 
90 



FOR ANNIE 

The sickness, the nausea, 

The pitiless pain, 
Have ceased, with the fever 

That maddened my brain, 
With the fever called " Living" 

That burned in my brain. 

And oh ! of all tortures, 

That torture the worst 
Has abated — the terrible 

Torture of thirst 
For the napthaHne river 

Of Passion accurst : 
I have drank of a water 

That quenches all thirst : 

Of a water that flows. 

With a lullaby sound, 
From a spring but a very few 

Feet under ground. 
From a cavern not very far 

Down under ground. 

And ah ! let it never 

Be foolishly said 
That my room it is gloomy, 

And narrow my bed ; 
For man never slept 

In a different bed : 
And, to sleeps you must slumber 

In just such a bed. 

My tantalized spirit 
Here blandly reposes, 
91 



INVOCATIONS 

Forgetting, or never 

Regretting, its roses : 
Its old agitations 

Of myrtles and roses ; 

For now, while so quietly 

Lying, it fancies 
A holier odor 

About it, of pansies : 
A rosemary odor, 

Commingled with pansies, 
With rue and the beautiful 

Puritan pansies. 

And so it lies happily, 

Bathing in many 
A dream of the truth 

And the beauty of Annie, 
Drowned in a bath 

Of the tresses of Annie. 

She tenderly kissed me, 

She fondly caressed, 
And then I feV. o'ently 

To sleep on her breast, 
Deeply to sleep 

From the heaven of her breast. 

When the light was extinguished, 

She covered me warm. 
And she prayed to the angels 

To keep me from harm, 
To the queen of the angels 

To shield me from harm. 
92 



FOR ANNIE 

And I lie so composedly 

Now, in my bed, 
(Knowing her love) 

That you fancy me dead ; 
And I rest so contentedly 

Now, in my bed, 
(With her love at my breast) 

That you fancy me dead, 
That you shudder to look at me, 

Thinking me dead. 

But my heart it is brighter 

Than all of the many 

Stars in the sky, „ 

For it sparkles with Annie : t 

It glows with the light t 

Of the love of my Annie, I 

With the thought of the light I 

Of the eyes of my Annie. |* 



i,^3 



TO MY MOTHER 

JdECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above, 

The angels, whispering to one another, 
Can find among their burning terms of love 

None so devotional as that of " Mother," 
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you — 

You who are more than mother unto me, 
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you 

In setting my Virginia's spirit free. 
My mother, my own mother, who died early, 

Was but the mother of myself ; but you 
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly. 

And thus are dearer than the mother I knew 
By that infinity with which my wife 
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. 



94 



' IV 

EARLY POEMS 



95 



NOTE: 184s 

Private reasons — some of which have reference to the 
sin of plagiarism, and others to the date of Tennyson's 
first poems — have induced me, after some hesitation, to 
republish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boy- 
hood. They are printed verbatim — without alteration 
from the original edition — the date of which is too remote 
to be judiciously acknowledged. 

E. A. P. 



96 



EARLY POEMS 



TAMERLANE 



Ki 



JND solace in a dying hour ! 

Such, father, is not (now) my theme ; 
I will not madly deem that power 

Of Earth may shrive me of the sin 
Unearthly pride hath revelled in ; 

I have no time to dote or dream. 
You call it hope — that fire of fire ! 
It is but agony of desire ; 
If I can hope — O God ! I can — 

Its fount is holier, more divine ; 
I would not call thee fool, old man, 

But such is not a gift of thine. 

Know thou the secret of a spirit 

Bowed from its wild pride into shame. 
O yearning heart, I did inherit 

Thy withering portion with the fame, 
The searing glory which hath shone 
Amid the jewels of my throne — 
Halo of Hell — and with a pain 
Not Hell shall make me fear again, 
O craving heart, for the lost flowers 
97 



EARLY POEMS 

And sunshine of my summer hours ! 
The undying voice of that dead time, 
With its interminable chime, 
Rings, in the spirit of a spell. 
Upon thy emptiness — a knell. 

I have not always been as now : 
The fevered diadem on my brow 
I claimed and won usurpingly. 
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given 
Rome to the Caesar, this to me ? — 
The heritage of a kingly mind, 
And a proud spirit which hath striven 
Triumphantly with human kind. 

On mountain soil I first drew life : 
The mists of the Taglay have shed 
Nightly their dews upon my head ; 
And, I believe, the winged strife 
And tumult of the headlong air 
Have nestled in my very hair. 

So late from Heaven — that dew — it fell 

('Mid dreams of an unholy night) 
Upon me with the touch of Hell, 

While the red flashing of the light 
From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er, 

Appeared to my half-closing eye 

The pageantry of monarchy. 
And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar 

Came hurriedly upon me, telling 
Of human battle, where my voice, 

My own voice, silly child ! was swelling 
98 



TAMERLANE 

(Oh, how my spirit would rejoice, 
And leap within me at the cry) 
The battle-cry of Victory! 

The rain came down upon my head 
Unsheltered, and the heavy wind 
Rendered me mad and deaf and Wind : 

It was but man, I thought, who shed 

Laurels upon me : and the rush. 
The torrent of the chilly air, 

Gurgled within my ear the crush 
Of empires — with the captive's prayer, 

The hum of suitors, and the tone 

Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne. 

My passions, from that hapless hour. 

Usurped a tyranny which men 
Have deemed, since I have reached to power, 
My innate nature — be it so : 

But, father, there lived one who, then, 
Then, in my boyhood, when their fire 
Burned with a still intenser glow 
(For passion must, with youth, expire) 

E'en then who knew this iron heart 

In woman's weakness had a part. 

I have no words — alas! — to tell 
The loveliness of loving well. 
Nor would I now attempt to trace 
The more than beauty of a face 
Whose lineaments, upon my mind. 
Are — shadows on the unstable wind : 
Thus I remember having dwelt 
Some page of early lore upon, 
99 



EARLY POEMS 



With loitering eye, till I have felt 
he letters, with their me 
To fantasies with none. 



The letters, with their meaning, melt 



Oh, she was worthy of all love ! 

Love, as in infancy, was mine: 
*T was such as angel minds above 

Might envy ; her young heart the shrine 
On which my every hope and thought 

Were incense, then a goodly gift. 
For they were childish and upright, 
Pure as her young example taught ; 

Why did I leave it, and, adrift. 
Trust to the fire within, for light? 

We grew in age and love together, 

Roaming the forest and the wild ; 
My breast her shield in wintry weather ; 

And when the friendly sunshine smiled, 
And she would mark the opening skies, 
/saw no Heaven but in her eyes. 
Young Love's first lesson is the heart : 

For 'mid that sunshine and those smiles, 
When, from our little cares apart, 

And laughing at her girlish wiles, 
I 'd throw me on her throbbing breast 

And pour my spirit out in tears, 
There was no need to speak the rest, 

No need to quiet any fears 
Of her — who asked no reason why, 
But turned on me her quiet eye. 

Yet more than worthy of the love 
My spirit struggled with, and strove, 

ICO 



TAMERLANE 

When on the mountain peak alone 
Ambition lent it a new tone, — 
I had no being but in thee: 

The world, and all it did contain 
In the earth, the air, the sea, — 

Its joy, its little lot of pain 
That was new pleasure, the ideal 

Dim vanities of dreams by night, 
And dimmer nothings which were real 

(Shadows, and a more shadowy light). 
Parted upon their misty wings, 
And so confusedly became 
Thine image, and a name, a name, — 
Two separate yet most intimate things. 

I was ambitious — have you known 

The passion, father ? You have not. 
A cottager, I marked a throne 
Of half the world as all my own. 

And murmured at such lowly lot ; 
But, just like any other dream. 

Upon the vapor of the dew 
My own had passed, did not the beam 

Of beauty which did while it through 
The minute, the hour, the day, oppress 
My mind with double loveliness. 

We walked together on the crown 
Of a high mountain which looked down, 
Afar from its proud natural towers 

Of rock and forest, on the hills — 
The dwindled hills ! begirt with bowers 
And shouting with a thousand rills. 
loi 



EARLY POEMS 

I spoke to her of power and pride, 

But mystically, in such guise 
That she might deem it nought beside 

The moment's converse ; in her eyes 
I read, perhaps too carelessly, 

A mingled feeling with my own ; 
The flush on her bright cheek to me 

Seemed to become a queenly throne 
Too well that I should let it be 

Light in the wilderness alone. 

I wrapped myself in grandeur then 

And donned a visionary crown ; 

Yet it was not that Fantasy 

Had thrown her mantle over me; 

But that, among the rabble — men, 

Lion ambition is chained down 
And crouches to a keeper's hand: 
Not so in deserts where the grand, 
The wild, the terrible, conspire 
With their own breath to fan his fire. 

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand ' 

Is she not queen of Earth? her pride 
Above all cities? in her hand 

Their destinies? in all beside 
Of glory which the world hath known, 
Stands she not nobly and alone? 
Falling, her veriest stepping-stone 
Shall form the pedestal of a throne ! 

And who her sovereign ? Timour — he 
Whom the astonished people saw 

Striding o'er empires haughtily 
A diademed outlaw ! 

102 



TAMERLANE 

O human love, thou spirit given, 
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven! 
Which fall'st into the soul like rain 
Upon the Siroc-withered plain, 
And, failing in thy power to bless. 
But leav'st the heart a wilderness ! 
Idea ! which bindest life around 
With music of so strange a sound 
And beauty of so wild a birth — 
Farewell ! for I have won the Earth. 



When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see 

No cliff beyond him in the sky, 
His pinions were bent droopingly. 

And homeward turned his softened eye. 
'T was sunset : when the sun will part, 
There comes a suUenness of heart 
To him who still would look upon 
The glory of the summer sun. 
That soul will hate the evening mist 
So often lovely, and will list 
To the sound of the coming darkness (known 
To those whose spirits hearken) as one 
Who, in a dream of night, would fij^ 
But cannot^ from a danger nigh. 

What though the moon — the white moon 
Shed all the splendor of her noon ? 
Her smile is chilly, and her beam. 
In that time of dreariness, will seem 
(So like you gather in your breath) 
A portrait taken after death. 
103 



EARLY POEMS 

And boyhood is a summer sun 
Whose waning is the dreariest one; 
For all we live to know is known, 
And all we seek to keep hath flown. 
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall 
With the noonday beauty — which is all ! 

I reached my home, my home no more. 

For all had flown who made it so. 
I passed from out its mossy door. 
And, though my tread was soft and low, 
A voice came from the threshold stone 
Of one whom I had earlier known : 
Oh, I defy thee. Hell, to show, 
On beds of fire that burn below, 
An humbler heart — a deeper woe. 

Father, I firmly do believe — 

I kftow, for Death, who comes for me 
From regions of the blest afar 
Where there is nothing to deceive, 
Hath left his iron gate ajar. 
And rays of truth you cannot see 
Are flashing through Eternity — 
I do believe that Eblis hath 
A snare in every human path ; 
Else how, when in the holy grove 
I wandered of the idol, Love, 
Who daily scents his snowy wings 
With incense of burnt offerings 
From the most unpolluted things. 
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven 
Above with trellised rays from Heaven 
104 



TAMERLANE 

No mote may shun, no tiniest fly, 
The lightning of his eagle eye, — 
How was it that Ambition crept. 

Unseen, amid the revels there, 
Till, growing bold, he laughed and leapt 

In the tangles of Love's very hair ? 



j95 



TO SCIENCE 

A PROLOGUE TO " AL AARAAF " 

OCIENCE ! true daughter of Old Time thou art, 

Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. 
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, 

Vulture, whose wings are dull realities ? 
How should he love thee ? or how deem thee wise, 

Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering 
To seek for treasure in th^ 'ewelled skies, 

Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing ? 
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car. 

And driven the Hamadryad from the wood 
To seek a shelter in some happier star ? 

Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood. 
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me 
The summer dream beneath the tamarind-tree ? 



»o& 



AL AARAAF 



PART I 



Vy H ! nothing earthly save the ray 

(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, 

As in those gardens where the day 

Springs from the gems of Circassy : 

Oh ! nothing earthly save the thrill 

Of melody in woodland rill, 

Or (music of the passion-hearted) 

Joy's voice so peacefully departed 

That, like the murmur in the shell, 

Its echo dwelleth and will dwell : 

Oh ! nothing of the dross of ours, 

Yet all the beauty, all the flowers 

That list our love, and deck our bowers, 

Adorn yon world afar, afar 

The wandering star. 

'T was a sweet time for Nesace : for there 
Her world lay lolling on the golden air. 
Near four bright suns, a temporary rest, 
An oasis in desert of the blest. 
Away — away — 'mid seas of rays that roll 
Empyrean splendor o'er the unchained soul, — 
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) 
Can struggle to its destined eminence,— 
107 



EARLY POEMS 

To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode, 
And late to ours, the favored one of God ; 
But, now, the ruler of an anchored realm, 
She throws aside the sceptre, leaves the helm, 
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, 
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs. 

Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, 
Whence sprang the " Idea of Beauty" into birth 
(Falling in wreaths through many a startled star, 
Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar, 
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt). 
She looked into Infinity, and knelt. 
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled. 
Fit emblems of the model of her world. 
Seen but in beauty, not impeding sight 
Of other beauty glittering through the light, — 
A wreath that twined each starry form around, 
And all the opaled air in color bound. 

All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed 
Of flowers : of lilies such as reared the head 
On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang 
So eagerly around about to hang 
Upon the flying footsteps of — deep pride — 
Of her who loved a mortal, and so died ; 
The Sephalica, budding with young bees, 
Upreared its purple stem around her knees, — 
And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnamed, 
Inmate of highest stars where erst it shamed 
All other loveliness ; — its honeyed dew 
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew). 
Deliriously sweet, was dropped from Heaven, 
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven 
108 



AL AARAAF 

In Trebizond, and on a sunny flower 

So like its own above that, to this hour, 

It still remaineth, torturing the bee 

With madness and unwonted re very ; 

In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf 

And blossom of the fairy plant in grief 

Disconsolate linger, — grief that hangs her head, 

Repenting follies that full long have fled, 

Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, 

Like guilty beauty, chastened, and more fair : — 

Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light 

She fears to perfume, perfuming the night ; 

And Clytia, pondering between many a sun. 

While pettish tears adown her petals run ; 

And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth, 

And died ere scarce exalted into birth. 

Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing 

Its way to Heaven from garden of a king ; 

And Valisnerian lotus, thither flown 

From struggling with the waters of the Rhone ; 

And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante, — 

Isola d'oro, fior di Levante ! 

And the Nelumbo bud that floats forever 

With Indian Cupid down the holy river: — 

Fair flowers, and fairy ! to whose care is given 

To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven 

"Spirit, that dwellest where, 
In the deep sky, 
The terrible and fair 

In beauty vie ! 
Beyond the line of blue, 
The boundary of the star 
109 



EARLY POEMS 

Which turneth at the view 

Of thy barrier and thy bar, — 
Of the barrier overgone 

By the comets who were cast 
From their pride, and from their throne, 

To be drudges till the last, — 
To be carriers of fire 

(The red fire of their heart) 
With speed that may not tire, 

And with pain that shall not part, — 
Who livest — that we know — 

In Eternity — we feel — 
But the shadow of whose brow 

What spirit shall reveal? 
Though the beings whom thy Nesace, 

Thy messenger, hath known, 
Have dreamed for thy Infinity 

A model of their own. 
Thy will is done, O God ! 

The star hath ridden high 
Through many a tempest, but she rode 

Beneath thy burning eye ; 
And here, in thought, to thee — 

In thought that can alone 
Ascend thy empire and so be 

A partner of thy throne — 
By winged Fantasy 

My embassy is given, 
Till secrecy shall knowledge be 

In the environs of Heaven." 

She ceased — and buried then her burning cheek, 
Abashed, amid the lili6s there to seek 

IIO 



AL AARAAF 

A shelter from the fervor of His eye ; 

For the stars trembled at the Deity. 

She stirred not — breathed not — for a voice was 

there, 
How solemnly pervading the calm air 1 
A sound of silence on the startled ear, 
Which dreamy poets name " the music of the sphere ! " 
Ours is a world of words : Quiet we call 
" Silence " — which is the merest word of all. 
All Nature speaks, and even ideal things 
Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings ; 
But ah ! not so when thus in realms on high 
The eternal voice of God is passing by, 
And the red winds are withering in the sky: — 

" What though in worlds which sightless cycles run, 
Linked to a little system, and one sun, — 
Where all my love is folly, and the crowd 
Still think my terrors but the thunder-cloud. 
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath, — 
(Ah ! will they cross me in my angrier path } ) 
What though in worlds which own a single sun 
The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run. 
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given 
To bear my secrets through the upper Heaven ! 
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly. 
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky, 
Apart — like fireflies in Sicilian night, 
And wing to other worlds another light ! 
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy 
To the proud orbs that twinkle, and so be 
To every heart a barrier and a ban 
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man ! " 
III 



EARLY POEMS 

Up rose the maiden in the yellow night, 
The single-mooned eve ! On Earth we plight 
Our faith to one love, and one moon adore : 
The birthplace of young Beauty had no more. 
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours, 
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers. 
And bent o'er sheeny mountain and dim plain 
Her way, but left not yet her Therassean reign. 



PART II 

High on a mountain of enamelled head, — 
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed 
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease. 
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees 
With many a muttered " hope to be forgiven," 
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven, — 
Of rosy head that, towering far away 
Into the sun-lit ether, caught the ray 
Of sunken suns at eve, at noon of night. 
While the moon danced with the fair stranger light ; 
Upreared upon such height arose a pile 
Of gorgeous columns on the unburdened air, 
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile 
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there, 
And nursled the young mountain in its lair. 
Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall 
Through the ebon air, besilvering the pall 
Of their own dissolution, while they die, — 
Adorning then the dwellings of the sky. 
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down. 
Sat gently on these columns as a crown ; 

T 12 



AL AARAAF 

A window of one circular diamond, there, 

Looked out above into the purple air. 

And rays from God shot down that meteor chain 

And hallowed all the beauty twice again, 

Save when, between the empyrean and that ring. 

Some eager spirit flapped his dusky wing. 

But on the pillars seraph eyes have seen 

The dimness of this world ; that grayish green 

That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave 

Lurked in each cornice, round each architrave ; 

And every sculptured cherub thereabout 

That from his marble dwelling peered out, 

Seemed earthly in the shadow of his niche, — 

Achaian statues in a world so rich ! 

Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis, 

From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss 

Of beautiful Gomorrah 1 Oh, the wave 

Is now upon thee — but too late to save ! 

Sound loves to revel in a summer night : 
Witness the murmur of the gray twilight 
That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco, 
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago ; 
That stealeth ever on the ear of him 
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim, 
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud ; 
Is not its form — its voice — most palpable and loud ? 

But what is this? —it cometh, and it brings 
A music with it — 't is the rush of wings : 
A pause — and then a sweeping, falling strain, 
And Nesace is in her halls again. 
From the wild energy of wanton haste 

Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart; 
And zone that clung around her gentle waist 



EARLY POEMS 

Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart. 
Within the centre of that hall to breathe 
She paused and panted, Zanthe ! all beneath 
The fairy light that kissed her golden hair, 
And longed to rest, yet could but sparkle there. 

Young flowers were whispering in melody 
To happy flowers that night, and tree to tree ; 
Fountains were gushing music as they fell 
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell; 
Yet silence came upon material things, 
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings, 
And sound alone, that from the spirit sprang, 
Bore burden to the charm the maiden sang : 

" 'Neath blue-bell or streamer. 

Or tufted wild spray 
That keeps from the dreamer 

The moonbeam away, 
Bright beings ! that ponder, 

With half closing eyes, 
On the stars which your wonder 

Hath drawn from the skies. 
Till they glance through the shade, and 

Come down to your brow 
Like — eyes of the maiden 

Who calls on you now, — 
Arise from your dreaming 

In violet bowers 
To duty beseeming 

These star-litten hours ! 
And shake from your tresses 

Encumbered with dew 
The breath of those kisses 
114 



AL AARAAF 

That cumber them too — 
Oh, how, without you. Love ! 

Could angels be blest ? — 
Those kisses of true love 

That lulled ye to rest ! 
Up ! shake from your wing 

Each hindering thing ! 
The dew of the night, 

It would weigh down your flight; 
And true love caresses, 

Oh, leave them apart . 
They are light on the tresses. 

But lead on the heart. 

" Ligeia ! Ligeia ! 

My beautiful one ! 
Whose harshest idea 

Will to melody run, 
Oh, is it thy will 

On the breezes to toss ? 
Or, capriciously still. 

Like the lone albatross, 
Incumbent on night 

(As she on the air) 
To keep watch with delight 

On the harmony there ? 

" Ligeia ! wherever 

Thy image may be, 
No magic shall sever 

Thy music from thee. 
Thou hast bound many eyes 

In a dreamy sleep, 
IIS 



EARLY POEMS 

But the strains still arise 

Which thy vigilance keep : 
The sound of the rain, 

Which leaps down to the flower 
And dances again 

In the rhythm of the shower, 
The murmur that springs 

From the growing of grass, 
Are the music of things, 

But are modelled, alas ! 
Away, then, my dearest, 

Oh, hie thee away 
To springs that lie clearest 

Beneath the moon-ray, — 
To lone lake that smiles, 

In its dream of deep rest, 
At the many star-isles 

That en jewel its breast ! 
Where wild flowers, creeping, 

Have mingled their shade. 
On its margin is sleeping 

Full many a maid ; 
Some have left the cool glade, and 

Have slept with the bee ; 
Arouse them, my maiden. 

On moorland and lea ! 
Go ! breathe on their slumber, 

All softly in ear, 
The musical number 

They slumbered to hear : 
For what can awaken 

An angel so soon, 
Whose sleep hath been taken 

Beneath the cold moon, 
ii6 



AL AARAAF 

As the spell which no slumber 

Of witchery may test, — 
The rhythmical number 

Which lulled him to rest ? 

Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, 
A thousand seraphs burst the empyrean through, — 
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight, 
Seraphs in all but " Knowledge," the keen light 
That fell, refracted, through thy bounds afar, 
O Death, from eye of God upon that star : 
Sweet was that error, sweeter still that death ; 
Sweet was that error — even with us the breath 
Of Science dims the mirror of our joy, — 
To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy. 
For what (to them) availeth it to know 
That Truth is Falsehood, or that Bliss is Woe? 
Sweet was their death — with them to die was rife 
With the last ecstasy of satiate life; 
Beyond that death no immortality, 
But sleep that pondereth and is not " to be ; " 
And there, oh, may my weary spirit dwell. 
Apart from Heaven's Eternity — and yet how far from 
Hell! 

What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim, 
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn ? 
But two ; they fell ; for Heaven no grace imparts 
To those who hear not for their beating hearts ; 
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover. 
Oh, where (and ye may seek the wide skies over) 
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known? 
Unguided Love hath fallen 'mid " tears of perfect 
moan." 

117 



EARLY POEMS 

He was a goodly spirit — he who fell : 
A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well, 
A gazer on the lights that shine above, 
A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love. 
What wonder ? for each star is eye-like there, 
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair ; 
And they, and every mossy spring were holy 
To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. 
The night had found (to him a night of woe) 
Upon a mountain crag young Angelo ; 
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky, 
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie. 
Here sate he with his love, his dark eye bent 
With eagle gaze along the firmament ; 
Now turned it upon her, but ever then 
It trembled to the orb of Earth again. 

" lanthe, dearest, see, how dim that ray ! 
How lovely 't is to look so far away ! 
She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve 
I left her gorgeous halls, nor mourned to leave. 
That eve, that eve, I should remember well, 
The sun-ray dropped in Lemnos with a spell 
On the arabesque carving of a gilded hall 
Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall, 
And on my eyelids. Oh, the heavy light. 
How drowsily it weighed them into night! 
On flowers before, and mist, and love, they ran 
With Persian Saadi in his GuHstan. 
But oh, that light ! I slumbered ; Death, the while, 
Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle 
So softly that no single silken hair 
Awoke that slept, or knew that he was there. 
Il8 



AL AARAAF 

" The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon 
Was a proud temple called the Parthenon ; 
More beauty clung around her columned wall 
Than even thy glowing bosom beats withal ; 
And when old Time my wing did disenthrall, 
Thence sprang I as the eagle from his tower, 
And years I left behind me in an hour. 
What time upon her airy bounds I hung, 
One half the garden of her globe was flung, 
Unrolhng as a chart unto my view ; 
Tenantless cities of the desert too ! 
lanthe, beauty crowded on me then, 
And half I wished to be again of men." 

" My Angelo ! and why of them to be ? 
A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee, 
And greener fields than in yon world above, 
And woman's loveliness, and passionate love.'* 

"But list, lanthe ! when the air so soft 
Failed as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft, 
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy — but the world 
I left so late was into chaos hurled, 
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart. 
And rolled, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. 
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar, 
And fell — not swiftly as I rose before, 
But with a downward, tremulous motion, through 
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto; 
Nor long the measure of my falling hours, 
For nearest of all stars was thine to ours ; 
Dread star ! that came, amid a night of mirth, 
A red Daedahon on the timid Earth." 
119 



EARLY POEMS 

" We came, and to thy Earth — but not to us 
Be given our lady's bidding to discuss : 
We came, my love ; around, above, below, 
Gay firefly of the night, we come and go, 
Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod 
She grants to us, as granted by her God. 
But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled 
Never his fairy wing o'er fairier world! 
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes 
Alone could see the phantom in the skies, 
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be 
Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea ; 
But when its glory swelled upon the sky, 
As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye, 
We paused before the heritage of men, 
And thy star trembled — as doth Beauty then ! " 

Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away 
The night that waned, and waned, and brought no day. 
They fell : for Heaven to them no hope imparts 
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. 



120 



THE HAPPIEST DAY, THE HAPPIEST 
HOUR " 

1 HE happiest day, the happiest hour 
My seared and blighted heart hath known, 

The highest hope of pride and power, 
I feel hath flown. 

Of power, said I ? yes ! such I ween ; 

But they have vanished long, alas ! 
The visions of my youth have been — 

But let them pass. 

And, pride, what have I now with thee ? 

Another brow may even inherit 
The venom thou hast poured on me — 

Be still, my spirit ! 

The happiest day, the happiest hour 
Mine eyes shall see — have ever seen, 

The brightest glance of pride and power, 
I feel — have been. 

But were that hope of pride and power 

Now offered, with the pain 
Even then I felt, — that brightest hour 

I would not live again. 

For on its wing was dark alloy, 

And, as it fluttered, fell 
An essence, powerful to destroy 

A soul that knew it well. 

121 



STANZAS 

How often we forget all time, when lone 

Admiring Nature's universal throne ; 

Her woods — her wilds — her mountains — the intense 

Reply of HERS to our intelligence I 

Byron : The Island. 



1 N youth have I known one with whom the Earth, 
In secret, communing held, as he with it, 
In daylight, and in beauty from his birth ; 
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit 
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth 
A passionate light — such for his spirit was fit — 
And yet that spirit knew not, in the hour 
Of its own fervor, what had o'er it power. 



Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought 
To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er ; 
But I will half believe that wild light fraught 
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore 
Hath ever told ; or is it of a thought 
The unembodied essence, and no more, 
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass 
As dew of the night-time o'er the summer grass ? 

3 

Doth o*er us pass, when, as the expanding eye 
To the loved object, so the tear to the lid 

122 



STANZAS 

Will start, which lately slept in apathy? 
And yet it need not be — that object — hid 
From us in life, but common — which doth lie 
Each hour before us — but then only bid 
With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken, 
To awake us. 'T is a symbol and a token 

4 
Of what in other worlds shall be, and given 
In beauty by our God to those alone 
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven, 
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone, 
That high tone of the spirit, which hath striven, 
Though not with Faith, with godliness, — whose 

throne 
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down ; 
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown. 



123 



EVENING STAR 



T 



WAS noontide of summer, 
And mid-time of night ; 
And stars, in their orbits, 

Shone pale, through the light 
Of the brighter, cold moon, 

'Mid planets her slaves, 
Herself in the Heavens, 
Her beam on the waves. 

I gazed awhile 

On her cold smile, 
Too cold — too cold for me ; 

There passed, as a shroud, 

A fleecy cloud, 
And I turned away to thee, 

Proud Evening Star, 

In thy glory afar, 
And dearer thy beam shall be ; 

For joy to my heart 

Is the proud part 
Thou bearest in Heaven at night. 

And more I admire 

Thy distant fire 
Than that colder, lowly light. 

124 



DREAMS 



O 



H, that my young life were a lasting dream ! 
My spirit not awakening, till the beam 
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow ! 
Yes ! though that long dream were of hopeless 

sorrow, 
'T were better than the cold reality 
Of waking life to him whose heart must be, 
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth, 
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth. 
But should it be — that dream eternally 
Continuing — as dreams have been to me 
In my young boyhood, — should it thus be given, 
"T were folly still to hope for higher Heaven. 
For I have revelled, when the sun was bright 
In the summer sky, in dreams of living light 
And loveliness, — have left my very heart 
In climes of mine imagining, apart 
From mine own home, with beings that have been 
Of mine own thought — what more could I have seen ? 
'T was once — and only once — and the wild hour 
From my remembrance shall not pass — some power 
Or spell had bound me ; 't was the chilly wind 
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind 
Its image on my spirit, or the moon 
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon 
125 



EARLY POEMS 

Too coldly, or the stars, — howe'er it was, 

That dream was as that night-wind — let it pass. 

I have been happy, though in a dream. 
I have been happy — and I love the theme — 
Dreams ! in their vivid coloring of life. 
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife 
Of semblance with reality, which brings 
To the delirious eye more lovely things 
Of Paradise and Love — and all our own — 
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known. 



126 



THE LAKE: TO 



I 



N spring of youth it was my lot 
To haunt of the wide world a spot 
The which I could not love the less, 
So lovely was the loneliness 
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, 
And the tall pines that towered around. 

But when the Night had thrown her pall 

Upon that spot, as upon all, 

And the mystic wind went by 

Murmuring in melody, 

Then — ah, then — I would awake 

To the terror of the lone lake. 

Yet that terror was not fright, 

But a tremulous delight : 

A feeling not the jewelled mine 

Could teach or bribe me to define, 

Nor love — although the love were thine. 

Death was in that poisonous wave. 
And in its gulf a fitting grave 
For him v/ho thence could solace bring 
To his lone imagining, 
Whose solitary soul could make 
An Eden of that dim lake. 
127 



SPIRITS OF THE DEAD 

1 HY soul shall find itself alone 
'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone ; 
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry 
Into thine hour of secrecy. 

Be silent in that solitude, 

Which is not loneliness — for then 
The spirits of the dead, who stood 

In life before thee, are again 
In death around thee, and their will 
Shall overshadow thee ; be still. 

The night, though clear, shall frown, 
And the stars shall look not down 
From their high thrones in the Heaven 
With light like hope to mortals given, 
But their red orbs, without beam, 
To thy weariness shall seem 
As a burning and a fever 
Which would cling to thee forever. 

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish, 
Now are visions ne'er to vanish ; 
From thy spirit shall they pass 
No more, like dewdrops from the grass. 
128 



SPIRITS OF THE DEAD 

The breeze, the breath of God, is still, 
And the mist upon the hill 
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken, 
Is a symbol and a token. 
How it hangs upon the trees, 
A mystery of mysteries ! 



129 



A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM 

1 AKE this kiss upon the brow ! 
And, in parting from you now, 
Thus much let me avow : 
You are not wrong who deem 
That my days have been a dream ; 
Yet if hope has flown away 
In a night, or in a day, 
In a vision, or in none, 
Is it therefore the less gone ? 
All that we see or seem 
Is but a dream within a dream. 

I stand amid the roar 
Of a surf-tormented shore. 
And I hold within my hand 
Grains of the golden sand — 
How few ! yet how they creep 
Through my fingers to the deep, 
While I weep — while I weep ! 
O God ! can I not grasp 
Them with a tighter clasp ? 
O God! can I not save 
One from the pitiless wave ? 
Is all that we see or seem 
But a dream within a dream ? 
130 



SONG 

i SAW thee on thy bridal day, 
When a burning blush came o'er thee, 

Though happiness around thee lay, 
The world all love before thee ; 

And in thine eye a kindling light 

(Whatever it might be) 
Was all on Earth my aching sight 

Of loveliness could see. 

That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame : 

As such it well may pass. 
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame 

In the breast of him, alas ! 

Who saw thee on that bridal day, 

When that deep blush would come o'er thee, 
Though happiness around thee lay, 

The world all love before thee. 



131 



TO THE RIVER 

X AIR river! in thy bright, clear flow 
Of crystal, wandering water, 

Thou art an emblem of the glow 

Of beauty — the unhidden heart, 
The playful maziness of art. 

In old Alberto's daughter ; 

But when within thy wave she looks. 

Which glistens then, and trembles, 
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks 

Her worshipper resembles ; 
For in his heart, as in thy stream. 

Her image deeply lies — 
His heart which trembles at the beam 

Of her soul-searching eyes. 



132 



TO 

X HE bowers whereat, in dreams, I see 

The wantonest singing birds, 
Are lips — and all thy melody 
Of lip-begotten words ; 

Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined, 

Then desolately fall, 
O God ! on my funereal mind 

Like starlight on a pall ; 

Thy heart — thy heart ! — I wake and sigh, 

And sleep to dream till day 
Of the truth that gold can never buy 

Of the bawbles that it may. 



133 



A DREAM 

1 N visions of the dark night 

I have dreamed of joy departed, 
But a waking dream of life and light 

Hath left me broken-hearted. 

Ah ! what is not a dream by day 

To him whose eyes are cast 
On things around him with a ray 

Turned back upon the past ? 

That holy dream, that holy dream. 

While all the world were chiding, 
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam 

A lonely spirit guiding. 

What though that light, through storm and night, 

So trembled from afar. 
What could there be more purely bright 

In Truth's day-star ? 



134 



ROMANCE 

IVOMANCE, who loves to nod and sing 

With drowsy head and folded wing 

Among the green leaves as they shake 

Far down within some shadowy lake, 

To me a painted paroquet 

Hath been — a most familiar bird — 

Taught me my alphabet to say, 

To lisp my very earliest word 

While in the wild-wood I did lie, 

A child — with a most knowing eye. 

Of late, eternal condor years 
So shake the very heaven on high 
With tumult as they thunder by, 
I have no time for idle cares 
Through gazing on the unquiet sky ; 
And when an hour with calmer wings 
Its down upon my spirit flings, 
That little time with lyre and rhyme 
To while away — forbidden things — 
My heart would feel to be a crime 
Unless it trembled with the strings. 



35 



FAIRY-LAND 



Di 



IM vales, and shadowy floods, 
And cloudy-looking woods, 
Whose forms we can't discover 
For the tears that drip all over! 
Huge moons there wax and wane, 
Again — again — again, 
Every moment of the night, 
Forever changing places, 
And they put out the starHght 
With the breath from their pale faces. 
About twelve by the moon-dial. 
One, more filmy than the rest 
(A kind which, upon trial, 
They have found to be the best), 
Comes down — still down — and down, 
With its centre on the crown 
Of a mountain's eminence, 
While its wide circumference 
In easy drapery falls 
Over hamlets, over halls. 
Wherever they may be; 
O'er the strange woods, o'er the sea. 
Over spirits on the wing, 
Over every drowsy thing. 
And buries them up quite 
In a labyrinth of light ; 
136 



FAIRY-LAND 

And then, how deep, oh, deep, 
Is the passion of their sleep ! 
In the morning they arise, 
And their moony covering 
Is soaring in the skies 
With the tempests as they toss, 
Like — almost anything — 
Or a yellow albatross. 
They use that moon no more 
For the same end as before, 
Videlicet, a tent, — 
Which I think extravagant. 
Its atomies, however, 
Into a shower dissever, 
Of which those butterflies 
Of Earth, who seek the skies, 
And so come down again 
(Never-contented things !), 
Have brought a specimen 
Upon their quivering wings. 



137 



ALONE 

t* ROM childhood's hour I have not been 

As others were ; I have not seen 

As others saw ; I could not bring 

My passions from a common spring. 

From the same source I have not taken 

My sorrow ; I could not awaken 

My heart to joy at the same tone ; 

And all I loved, / loved alone. 

Then — in my childhood, in the dawn 

Of a most stormy life — was drawn 

From every depth of good and ill 

The mystery which binds me still: 

From the torrent, or the fountain, 

From the red cliff of the mountain, 

From the sun that round me rolled 

In its autumn tint of gold, 

From the lightning in the sky 

As it passed me flying by, 

From the thunder and the storm, 

And the cloud that took the form 

(When the rest of Heaven was blue) 

Of a demon in my view. 



138 



NOTES 



TOGETHER WITH A COMPLETE VARI- 
ORUM TEXT OF THE POEMS 



139 



NOTES 



ON THE POEMS 

1 HE sources of the text for Poe's poems are the 
four editions published by him, 1827, 1829, 1831, 1845, 
and the newspapers, journals, and magazines to which 
he contributed poems ; viz., the Baltimore " Saturday 
Visiter," " Southern Literary Messenger," " Burton's 
Gentleman's Magazine," Baltimore "American Mu- 
seum," Philadelphia " Saturday Evening Post," " Gra- 
ham's Magazine," Philadelphia " Saturday Museum," 
" Broadway Journal," " American Whig Review," 
" Union Magazine," " Sartain's Union Magazine," 
" Flag of our Union." In one or two instances in 
which the first issue of a poem is either unknown or 
not found, the text of Griswold, 1850, is the sole au- 
thority. The only MS. source, superior to these texts, 
is the Lorimer Graham copy of the 1845 edition, which 
contains marginal corrections in Poe's hand. The 
Wilmer MS. (see Preface) affords new early readings. 
The collation of the several editions is as follows : 

1827. 

Tamerlane | and | Other Poems | By a Bosto- 
nian | Young heads are giddy and young hearts are 
warm | And make mistakes for manhood to reform, j 
141 



NOTES 

CowpER I Boston I Calvin F. S. Thomas, Printer j 
1827. 

Collation [6)4 X 4'A inches]. Title (with blank 
verso), pp. 1-2; Preface, pp. 3-4; Tamerlane, pp. 
5-21 ; Blank verso, p. 22 ; Half-title, Fugitive Pieces 
(with blank verso), pp. 23-24; Fugitive Pieces, pp. 
25-34; Half-title, Notes (with blank verso), pp. 35-36; 
Notes, pp. 37-40. 

Issued as a pamphlet, in yellow covers. Three 
copies are known. The text follows the Reprint by 
R. H. Shepard, London, 1884, which corrects printer's 
errors, but gives them in a list by themselves in the 
Preface. 

1829. 

Al Aaraaf I Tamerlane ] and | Minor 
Poems | By Edgar A. Poe. | Baltimore : 1 Hatch & 
Dunning | 1829. 

Collation: Octavo. Title (with copyright and 
imprint on verso), pp. 1-2; Motto: — Entiendes, etc. 
(with blank verso), pp. 3-4 ; Half-title, Al Aaraaf 
(with motto What has Night, etc. on verso), pp. 5-6 ; 
Dedication. | Who Drinks the deepest.'' — here's to 
him. j Cleveland (with blank verso), pp. 7-8 ; Motto, 
*' A star was discovered," etc. (with blank verso), pp. 
9-10; Sonnet, "Science," etc. (with blank verso), pp. 
11-12; Al Aaraaf | Part i, pp. 13-21; Blank verso, 
p. 22; Half-title, Al Aaraaf (with blank verso), pp. 
23-24 ; Al Aaraaf | Part 2, pp. 25-38 ; Half-title, Tam- 
erlane (with Advertisement | This poem was printed 
for publication in Boston, in the year | 1827, but sup- 
pressed through circumstances of a private nature, on 
verso), pp. 39-40 ; Dedication, To ] John A^eal \ This 
Poem I is | respectfully dedicated (with blank verso), 
142 



NOTES 



pp. 41-42; Tamerlane, pp. 43-54 ; Half-title, Miscel- 
laneous Poems (with motto: My nothingness, etc., on 
verso), pp. 55-56 ; Poems (no title), pp. 57-71. Issued 



in blue boards. 



1831. 



Poems | By | Edgar A. Poe | Tout le Monde a 
Raison. — Rochefoucault. | Second Edition | New 
York. I Published by Elam Bliss | 1831. 

Collation : Duodecimo. Half-title, Poems (with 
blank verso), pp. 1-2; Title (with imprint on verso), 
pp. 3-4. Dedication, To | The U. S. Corps of Cadets | 
This Volume | is Respectfully Dedicated (with blank 
verso), pp. 5-6 ; Contents (with blank verso), pp. 
7-8; Half-title, Letter (with blank verso), pp. 9-10; 
Motto, "Tell wit," etc. (with blank verso), pp. 11-12; 

Letter to Mr. (with blank verso), pp. 13-30; 

Half-title, Introduction (with blank verso), pp. 31-32; 
Introduction, pp. 33-36 ; Half-title, Helen (with blank 
verso), pp. 37-38 ; To Helen (with blank verso), pp. 
39-40 ; Half-title, Israfel (with blank verso), pp. 
41-42 ; Israfel (with blank verso), pp. 43-46 ; Half-title, 
The Doomed City (with blank verso), pp. 47-48 ; The 
Doomed City (with blank verso), pp. 49-52; Half- 
title, Fairyland (with blank verso), pp. 53-54; Fairy 
Land, pp. 55-58 ; Half-title, Irene (with blank verso), 
59-60; Irene, pp. 61-64; Half-title, A Paean (with 
blank verso), pp. 65-66; A Paean, pp. 67-70; Half- 
title, Valley Nis (with blank verso), pp. 71-72; The 
Valley Nis (with blank verso), pp. 73-76 ; Half-title, 
Al Aaraaf, p. ']'] ; Motto, "What has Night to do with 
Sleep ? " — Comus^ p. ']Z\ "A Star was discovered," etc. 
(with blank verso), pp. 79-80 ; Sonnet, " Science " 
(with blank verso), pp. 81-82 ; Al Aaraaf | Part First j 
t43 



NOTES 

PP- 83-92 ; Half-title, Al Aaraaf (with blank verso), 
PP- 93-94 ; Al Aaraaf | Part Second, pp. 95-108 ; Half- 
title, Tamerlane (with blank verso), pp. 109-110; 
Tamerlane, pp. 111-124. Issued in green boards. 

The prefatory " Letter to Mr. " was re- 
published, slightly revised, in the " Southern Literary 
Messenger," July, 1836, with the following note: 
" These detached passages form part of the preface 
to a small volume printed some years ago for private 
circulation. They have vigor and much originality — 
but of course we shall not be called upon to indorse 
all the writer's opinions." 

In the original form, 1831, the letter is as follows : — 



LETTER TO MR. 

West Point, , 1831. 

Dear B 

Believing only a portion of my former volume to 
be worthy a second edition, — that small portion I 
thought it as well to include in the present book as to 
republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined 
"Al Aaraaf" and "Tamerlane" with other Poems 
hitherto unprinted. Nor have I hesitated to insert 
from the " Minor Poems " now omitted whole lines, 
and even passages, to the end that, being placed in a 
fairer light and the trash shaken from them in which 
they were embedded, they may have some chance of 
being seen by posterity. 

It has been said that a good critique on a poem may 
be written by one who is no poet himself. This, accord- 
ing to yotir idea and mine of poetry, I feel to be 
false — the less poetical the critic, the less just the 
144 



NOTES 

critique, and the converse. On this account, and be- 
cause there are but few B 's in the world, I would 

be as much ashamed of the world's good opinion as 
proud of your own. Another than yourself might here 
observe, " Shakespeare is in possession of the world's 
good opinion, and yet Shakespeare is the greatest of 
poets. It appears then that the world judge correctly, 
why should you be ashamed of their favorable judg- 
ment .'*" The difficulty lies in the interpretation of 
the word "judgment" or "opinion." The opinion 
is the world's, truly, but it may be called theirs as a 
man would call a book his, having bought it ; he did 
not write the book, but it is his ; they did not originate 
the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for example, 
thinks Shakespeare a great poet — yet the fool has 
never read Shakespeare. But the fool's neighbor, who 
is a step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head 
(that is to say, his more exalted thought) is too far 
above the fool to be seen or understood, but whose 
feet (by which I mean his every-day actions) are suffi- 
ciently near to be discerned, and by means of which 
that superiority is ascertained, which but for them 
would never have been discovered, — this neighbor 
asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet, — the fool 
believes him, and it is henceforward his opinion. This 
neighbor's own opinion has, in like manner, been 
adopted from one above hi7n, and so, ascendingly, to 
a few gifted individuals, who kneel around the summit, 
beholding, face to face, the master-spirit who stands 
upon the pinnacle. 

You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an 
American writer. He is read, if at all, in preference 
to the combined and established wit of the world. I 
145 



NOTES 

say established ; for it is with literature as with law or 
empire — an established name is an estate in tenure, 
or a throne in possession. Besides, one might sup- 
pose that books, like their authors, improve by travel 
— their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a 
distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for dis- 
tance ; our very fops glance from the binding to the 
bottom of the titlepage, where the mystic characters 
which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so 
many letters of recommendation. 

I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criti- 
cism. I think the notion that no poet can form a 
correct estimate of his own writings is another. I 
remarked before, that in proportion to the poetical 
talent, would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. 
Therefore, a bad poet would, I grant, make a false 
critique, and his self-love would infallibly bias his little 
judgment in his favor ; but a poet, who is indeed a 
poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique. 
Whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love, 
might be replaced on account of his intimate acquaint- 
ance with the subject ; in short, we have more instances 
of false criticism than of just, where one's own writ- 
ings are the test, simply because we have more bad 
poets than good. There are of course many objec- 
tions to what I say : Milton is a great example of the 
contrary ; but his opinion with respect to the " Para- 
dise Regained " is by no means fairly ascertained. By 
what trivial circumstances men are often led to assert 
what they do not really believe ! Perhaps an inadver- 
tent word has descended to posterity. But, in fact, 
the "Paradise Regained" is little, if at all, inferior to 
the " Paradise Lost," and is only supposed so to be, 
146 



NOTES 

because men do not like epics, whatever they may say 
to the contrary, and reading those of Milton in their 
natural order, are too much wearied with the first to 
derive any pleasure from the second. 

I dare say Milton preferred " Comus " to either — if 
so — justly. 



As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to 
touch slightly upon the most singular heresy in its 
modern history — the heresy of what is called, very 
foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might 
have been induced, by an occasion like the present, to 
attempt a formal refutation of their doctrine ; at pres- 
ent it would be a work of supererogation. The wise 
must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge and 
Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical 
theories so prosaically exemplified. 

Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared 
poetry the most philosophical of all writings ; but it 
required a Wordsworth to pronounce it the most meta- 
physical. He seems to think that the end of poetry 
is, or should be, instruction — yet it is a truism that 
the end of our existence is happiness ; if so, the end 
of every separate part of our existence — everything 
connected with our existence should be still happiness. 
Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; 
and happiness is another name for pleasure; — there- 
fore the end of instruction should be pleasure : yet we 
see the above-mentioned opinion implies precisely the 
reverse. 

To proceed : ceteris paribus^ he who pleases is of 
more importance to his fellow-men than he who in- 
structs, since utility is happiness, and pleasure is the 
147 



NOTES 

end already obtained which instruction is merely the 
means of obtaining. 

I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets 
should plume themselves so much on the utihty of 
their works, unless indeed they refer to instruction 
with eternity in view ; in which case, sincere respect for 
their piety would not allow me to express my contempt 
for their judgment ; contempt which it would be diffi- 
cult to conceal, since their writings are professedly to 
be understood by the few, and it is the many who 
stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no 
doubt be tempted to think of the devil in " Melmoth," 
who labors indefatigably through three octavo volumes 
to accomplish the destruction of one or two souls, while 
any common devil would have demolished one or two 
thousand. 

Against the subtleties which would make poetry a 
study — not a passion — it becomes the metaphysician 
to reason — but the poet to protest. Yet Wordsworth 
and Coleridge are men in years ; the one imbued in 
contemplation from his childhood, the other a giant 
in intellect and learning. The diffidence, then, with 
which I venture to dispute their authority, would be 
overwhelming, did I not feel, from the bottom of my 
heart, that learning has little to do with the imagi- 
nation — intellect with the passions — or age with 
poetry. 

" Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow, 
He who would search for pearls must dive below," 

are lines which have done much mischief. As regards 

the greater truths, men oftener err by seeking them at 

the bottom than at the top ; the depth lies in the huge 

148 



NOTES 

abysses where wisdom is sought — not in the palpable 
palaces where she is found. The ancients were not 
always right in hiding the goddess in a well : witness 
the light which Bacon has thrown upon philosophy ; 
witness the principles of our divine faith — that moral 
mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may 
overbalance the wisdom of a man. Poetry above all 
things is a beautiful painting whose tints to minute 
inspection are confusion worse confounded, but start 
boldly out to the cursory glance of the connoisseur. 

We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in 
his "Biographia Literaria " — professedly his literary 
life and opinions, but, in fact, a treatise de omni scibili 
et qiiibusdam aliis. He goes wrong by reason of his 
very profundity, and of his error we have a natural 
type in the contemplation of a star. He who regards 
it directly and intensely sees, it is true, the star, but it 
is the star without a ray — while he who surveys it less 
inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is 
useful to us below — its brilliancy and its beauty. 

As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he 
had, in youth, the feelings of a poet I believe — for 
there are glimpses of extreme delicacy in his writings 
— (and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom — his El 
Dorado) — but they have the appearance of a better 
day recollected ; and glimpses, at best, are little evi- 
dence of present poetic fire — we know that a few 
straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of 
the avalanche. 

He was to blame in wearing away his youth in con- 
templation with the end of poetizing in his manhood. 
With the increase of his judgment the light which 
should make it apparent has faded away. His judg- 
149 



NOTES 

ment consequently is too correct. This may not be 
understood, — but the old Goths of Germany would 
have understood it, who used to debate matters of im- 
portance to their State twice, once when drunk, and 
once when sober — sober that they might not be 
deficient in formality — drunk lest they should be 
destitute of vigor. 

The long wordy discussions by which he tries to 
reason us into admiration of his poetry, speak very 
little in his favor : they are full of such assertions as 
this — (I have opened one of his volumes at random) 
" Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what 
is worthy to be done, and what was never done before " 
— indeed ! then it follows that in doing what is uti- 
worthy to be done, or what has been done before, no 
genius can be evinced ; yet the picking of pockets is 
an unworthy act, pockets have been picked time im- 
memorial, and Barrington, the pickpocket, in point of 
genius, would have thought hard of a comparison with 
William Wordsworth, the poet. 

Again — in estimating the merit of certain poems, 
whether they be Ossian's or M'Pherson's, can surely 
be of little consequence, yet, in order to prove their 

worthlessness, Mr. W has expended many pages in 

the controversy. TanicBne aniinis ? Can great minds 
descend to such absurdity ? But worse still : that he 
may bear down every argument in favor of these 
poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in 
his abomination of which he expects the reader to 
sympathize. It is the beginning of the epic poem 
"Temora." "The blue waves of Ullin roll in light; 
the green hills are covered with day ; trees shake their 
dusky heads in the breeze." And this — this gorgeous, 
yet simple imagery, where all is alive and panting with 
150 



NOTES 

immortality — this, William Wordsworth, the author 
of "Peter Bell," has j-^/^^/^^ai' to dignify with his im- 
perial contempt. We shall see what better he, in his 
own person, has to offer. Imprimis : — 

•* And now she 's at the poney's head, 
And now she's at the poney's tail, 
On that side now, and now on this, 
And almost stifled her with bliss — 
A few sad tears does Betty shed. 
She pats the poney where or when 
She knows not : happy Betty Foy ! 
O, Johnny ! never mind the Doctor ! " 

Secondly : — 
" The dew was falling fast, the — stars began to blink, 

I heard a voice ; it said drink, pretty creature, drink ; 

And, looking o'er the hedge, be — fore me I espied 
A snow-white mountain lamb, with a — maiden at its side. 
No other sheep were near ; the lamb was all alone. 
And by a slender cord was — tether' d to a stone." 

Now, we have no doubt this is all true ; we will 

believe it, indeed, we will, Mr. W . Is it sympathy 

for the sheep you wish to excite ? I love a sheep from 
the bottom of my heart. 

But there are occasions, dear B , there are occa- 
sions when even Wordsworth is reasonable. Even 
Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and the most 
unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is 
an extract from his preface : — 

" Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology 
of modern writers, if they persist in reading this book to a 
conclusion {impossible !), will, no doubt, have to struggle 
with feelings of awkwardness; (hal ha! ha!) they will 
look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!) and will be in- 
duced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts 



NOTES 

have been permitted to assume that title. Ha ! ha ! ha I 
ha! hal" 

Yet, let not Mr. W despair ; he has given im- 
mortality to a wagon, and the bee Sophocles has eter- 
nalized a sore toe, and dignified a tragedy with a 
chorus of turkeys. 

Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but with reverence. 
His towering intellect ! his gigantic power ! To use 
an author quoted by himself, "J'ai trouvd souvent 
que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne 
partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce 
qu'elles nient," and to employ his own language, he 
has imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he 
has erected against those of others. It is lamentable 
to think that such a mind should be buried in meta- 
physics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its perfume 
upon the night alone. In reading that man's poetry, I 
tremble, like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious, 
from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the 
fire and the light that are weltering below. 

What is Poetry ? — Poetry ! that Proteus-like idea, 
with as many appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra ! 
" Give me," I demanded of a scholar some time ago, 
"give me a definition of poetry." " Tres-volontiers ; " 
and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr. 
Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. 
Shade of the immortal Shakespeare ! I imagine to 
myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon the pro- 
fanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, 

dear B , think of poetry, and then think of — Dr. 

Samuel Johnson ! Think of all that is airy and fairy- 
152 



NOTES 

like, and then of all that is hideous and unwieldy ; 
think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then — 
and then think of the " Tempest " — the " Midsummer 
Night's Dream" — Prosper© — Oberon — and Titania ! 

A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of sci- 
ence by having, for its ifnmediate object, pleasure, not 
truth ; to romance, by having, for its object, an mde- 
fi7iite instead of a de/i?nte pleasure, being a poem only 
so far as this object is attained ; romance presenting 
perceptible images with definite, poetry with /^definite 
sensations, to which end music is an essential^ since 
the comprehension of sweet sound is our most inde- 
finite conception. Music, when combined with a 
pleasurable idea, is poetry ; music, without the idea, 
is simply music ; the idea, without the music, is prose, 
from its very definitiveness. 

What was meant by the invective against him who 
had no music in his soul? 

To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B , 

what you, no doubt, perceive, for the metaphysical 
poets, as poets, the most sovereign contempt. That 
they have followers proves nothing — 

No Indian prince has to his palace 

More followers than a thief to the gallows. 

1845. 

The Raven 1 and | Other Poems. ( By | Edgar 
A. Poe, I New York: | Wiley and Putnam, i6i Broad- 
way. I 1845. 

Collation : Duodecimo. Fly-title, Wiley and Put-- 
nam's | Library of | American Books. | The Raven 
and Other Poems. — Title (with copyright and imprint 
I S3 



NOTES 

on verso), pp. i-ii ; Dedication (with blank verso), pp. 
iii-iv; Preface (with Contents on verso), pp. v-vi ; The 
Raven and Other Poems, pp. 1-51 ; Blank verso, p. 52; 
Half-title, Poems Written in Youth (with blank verso), 
pp. 53-54 ; Poems Written in Youth, pp. 55-91. Issued 
in paper covers. 

THE RAVEN 

The Raven. The "Evening Mirror," Jan. 29, 1845; 

The " American Whig Review," February, 1845 

(by " Quarles "); " Broadway Journal," i. 6 ; 1845. 

Text. 1845, Lorimer Graham copy. Other readings: 

II. 3 sought I tried Am. W. R. ; B. J. 

V. 3 stillness \ darkness Am. W. R. ; B. J. ; 

1845. 
VI. I Back I Then Am. W. R. ; B. J. 
2 again I heard \ I heard again. 
VII. 3 minute \ instant Am. W. R. ; B. J. ; 
1845; 7Jtoment Poe's "Philosophy 
of Composition." 
IX. 3 living hu7na7i \ sublunary Am. W. R. 
X. 6 Then the bird said \ Quoth the raven 

Am. W. R. 
XI. I Startled \ Wondering Am. W. R. 
4-6 //// . . . nevermore.' " \ so when 
Hope he would adjure 
Stern Despair rettirned, instead of the 

sweet Hope he dared adjure. 
That sad a?tswer, ' Nevermore! " Am. 
W. R. 

5 that I the B. J. 

6 0/ ' Nevermore ' — of Nevermore.' " 

B.J. 

154 



NOTES 

XII. I fancy \ sad soul Am. W. R. ; B. J. ; 

1845. 
XIV. 2 Seraphim whose \ angels whose faint 
Am. W. R. ; B. J. ; 1845. 
5 Q^^^ff' oh I Let 7ne Am. W. R. 
XVIII. 3 demon's \ demon Am. W. R. ; B. J. 

Notes. " Evening Mirror," Jan. 24, 1845 * — 
" We are permitted to copy, from the second number 
of * The American Review,' the following remarkable 
poem by Edgar Poe. In our opinion it is the most 
effective single example of 'fugitive poetry' ever pub- 
lished in this country, and unsurpassed in English 
poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of 
versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative 
lift and 'pokerishness.' It is one of those 'dainties 
bred in a book,' which we feed on. It will stick to the 
memory of everybody who reads it." 

"American Whig Review," February, 1845 ' — 
" The following lines from a correspondent, besides 
the deep quaint strain of the sentiment, and the curi- 
ous introduction of some ludicrous touches amidst the 
serious and impressive, as was doubtless intended by 
the author, — appear to us one of the most felicitous 
specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time 
met our eye. The resources of English rhythm for 
varieties of melody, measure, and sound, producing 
corresponding diversities of effect, have been thor- 
oughly studied, much more perceived, by very few 
poets in the language. While the classic tongues, 
especially the Greek, possess, by power of accent, 
several advantages for versification over our own, 
155 



NOTES 

chiefly through greater abundance of spondaic feet, 
we have other and very great advantages of sound by 
the modern usage of rhyme. Alliteration is nearly 
the only effect of that kind which the ancients had in 
common with us. It will be seen that much of the 
melody of 'The Raven' arises from alliteration, and 
the studious use of similar sounds in unusual places. 
In regard to its measure, it may be noted that, if all 
the verses were like the second, they might properly 
be placed merely in short lines, producing a not un- 
common form ; but the presence in all the others of 
one line — mostly the second in the verse — which 
flows continuously, with ottly an aspirate pause in the 
middle, like that before the short line in the Sapphic 
Adonic, while the fifth has at the middle pause no 
similarity of sound with any part beside, gives the 
versification an entirely different effect. We could 
wish the capacities of our noble language, in prosody, 
were better understood." 

Inspection of the above readings shows the poem in 
four states: first, as originally issued, Jan. 29, 1845; 
second, as revised in the " Broadway Journal," i. 6, 
Feb. 8, 1845 ; third, as revised in the edition of 1845; 
fourth, as revised in the Lorimer Graham copy of that 
edition, in Poe's MS. 

The earliest date assigned to the composition or 
draft of the poem is the summer of 1842. Dr. William 
Elliot Griffis, in the "Home Journal," Nov. 5, 1884, 
says that Poe was, in the summer of 1842, at the 
Barhyte trout-ponds, Saratoga Springs, New York, and 
mentioned the poem "to be called ' The Raven'" to 
Mrs. Barhyte, who was a contributor to the New York 
" Mirror." The next summer Poe was again at the 
156 



NOTES 

same resort ; and a conversation between him and a lad 
about the bird in the poem is reported by Dr. Griffis, 
who adds that Mrs. Barhyte was shown the draft. This 
lady died in April, 1844. These statements seem to be 
derived from Mr. Barhyte's recollection of what his 
wife said. Dr. Griffis sent this account in manuscript 
to the present writer ; but it was not embodied in the 
biography of Poe, then being prepared, because it was 
thought best to admit into that volume only such new 
facts as were supported by contemporary documents. 
The next earliest date for the poem is given by Mr. 
Rosenbach in the "American," Feb. 26, 1887. "I 
read ' The Raven ' long before it was published, and 
was in Mr. George R. Graham's office when the poem 
was offered to him. Poe said that his wife and Mrs. 
Clemm were starving, and that he was in very press- 
ing need of the money. I carried him fifteen dollars 
contributed by Mr. Graham, Mr. Godey, Mr. Mc- 
Michael, and others, who condemned the poem, but 
gave the money as a charity." This was before Poe's 
removal to New York, and places the date of composi- 
tion certainly as early as the winter of 1843-44. Other 
accounts of the poem, before publication, were given 
by F. G. Fairfield in the "Scribner's," October, 1875, 
as follows : — 

" Poe then occupied a cottage at Fordham, — a kind 
of poet's nook, just out of hearing of the busy hum of 
the city. He had walked all the way from New York 
that afternoon, and, having taken a cup of tea, went out 
in the evening and wandered about for an hour or more. 
His beloved Virginia was sick almost unto death ; he 
was without money to procure the necessary medicines. 
He was out until about ten o'clock. When he went in 
he sat down at his writing-table and dashed off 'The 
^S1 



NOTES 

Raven.' He submitted it to Mrs. Clemm for her con- 
sideration the same night, and it was printed substan- 
tially as it was written. 

" This account of the origin of the poem was com- 
municated to me in the fall of 1865, by a gentleman 
who professed to be indebted to Mrs. Clemm for the 
facts as he stated them ; and in the course of a saunter 
in the South, in the summer of 1867, I took occasion 
to verify his story by an interview with that aged 
lady. Let me now drop Mrs. Clemm's version for a 
paragraph to consider another, resting upon the testi- 
mony of Colonel Du SoUe, who was intimate with Poe 
at this period, and concurred in by other hterary con- 
temporaries who used to meet him of a midday for a 
budget of gossip and a glass of ale at Sandy Welsh's 
cellar in Ann Street. 

" Du Solle says that the poem was produced stanza 
by stanza at small intervals, and submitted by Poe 
piecemeal to the criticism and emendation of his inti- 
mates, who suggested various alterations and substi- 
tutions. Poe adopted many of them. Du Solle quotes 
particular instances of phrases that were incorporated 
at his suggestion, and thus ' The Raven ' was a kind 
of joint-stock affair in which many minds held small 
shares of intellectual capital. At length, when the 
last stone had been placed in position and passed 
upon, the structure was voted complete." 

Poe was in the habit of declaiming his compositions, 
when intoxicated, in liquor saloons. 

An unimportant account of his offering the poem to 
Mr. Holley of the "American Whig Review" is given 
in "The South," November, 1875, quoted in Ingram, 
"The Raven," p. 24. Mr. Ingram also quotes from 
what is clearly a hoax, a letter signed J. Shaver, dated 
15S 



NOTES 

New Orleans, July 29, 1870, and quoting from an 
alleged letter, Poe to Daniels, Sept. 29, 1849, ^^ 
which Poe is made to confess that the poem was writ- 
ten by Samuel Fenwick, and that he signed his own 
name to it and sent it for publication when intoxi- 
cated, Mr. Fenwick being then dead. The present 
writer would not have thought it necessary to include 
this story, if it had not already found its way into 
books. The letter, which was published in the " New 
Orleans Times," and now lies before us, there is no 
occasion to reprint. 

The commentary on the poem by Poe, in "The 
Philosophy of Composition," and passim, in the criti- 
cal papers, need only be referred to. The obligation 
to Mrs. Browning's " Lady Geraldine's Courtship " is 
obvious, but does not affect the true originality of 
the poem ; that to Pike's ' Isadore ' is wholly illusory, 
there being a dozen poems by contemporaneous minor 
authors in respect to which an equally good case can 
be made out. Indeed, some of them really thought 
that Poe had " plagiarized " fame from their verses. A 
monograph, " The Raven," London, 1885, by Mr. J. H. 
Ingram, to which reference has been made above, 
contains several translations, parodies, etc., and gives 
an account of the genesis, history, and bibliography of 
the poem. 

THE BRIDAL BALLAD 

TAe Bridal Ballad. " Southern Literary Messenger," 
January, 1837 ; Philadelphia " Saturday Evening 
Post," July 31, 1841 ; 1845; "Broadway Jour- 
nal," ii. 4. 

Text. 1845. Lorimer Graham copy. Other read- 
ings : — 

159 



NOTES 

I. 3 Insert after : 

and many a rood of land S. L. M. 
II. I He has loved me long and well S. L. M. 

2 But I And\ first \ omit S. L. M. 

4 as I like B. J. 

rang as a knell \ were his who fell 
S. L. M. rang like a knell B. J. 

5 omit S. L. M. 

III. I Bjit I And S. L. M. 

3 While I But S. L. M. 

6 omit S. L. M. 

7 Insert after : — 

And thus they said I phghted 

An irrevocable vow — 
And my friends are all delighted 
That his love I have requited — 
And my mind is much benighted 

If I am not happy now. 

Lo ! the ring is on my hand, 

And the wreath is on my brow — 

Satins and jewels grand, 

And many a rood of land, 

Are all at my command, 
And I must be happy now. 

S. L. M. 

IV. 1-2 I have spoken, I have spoken 

They have registered the vow. 

S. L. M. 
It was spoken — it was spoken — 
Quick they registered the vow. 

S. E. P. 
5 Here is a ring as \ Behold the golden all 
other editions. 
l6o 



NOTES 

6 / am I proves me all other editions. 
V. 5 Lest 1 And S. L. M. 

Notes. In connection with this, and also the poem 
" Lenore," the following, from the " Southern Literary 
Messenger," August, 1835, is of interest: — 

"Mr. White: — 

" The subjoined copy of an old Scotch ballad con- 
tains so much of the beauty and genuine spirit of 
bygone poetry that I have determined to risk a frown 
from the fair lady by whom the copy was furnished, in 
submitting it for publication. The ladies sometimes 
violate their promises — may I not for once assume 
their privilege, in presenting to the readers of the 
* Messenger' this 'legend of the olden time,' although 
I promised not? Relying on the kind heart of the 
lady for forgiveness for this breach of promise, I have 
anticipated the pardon in sending you the lines, which 
I have never as yet seen in print. 

" BALLAD 

" They have giv'n her to another — 
They have sever'd ev'ry vow ; 
They have giv'n her to another, 
And my heart is lonely now ; 
They remember'd not our parting — 
They remember'd not our tears, 
They have sever'd in one fatal hour 
The tenderness of years. 

Oh ! was it weel to leave me ? 
Thou couldst not so deceive me ; 
Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee, 
Lost, lost Rosabel ! 
161, 



NOTES 

" They have giv'n thee to another — 
Thou art now his gentle bride ; 
Had I lov'd thee as a brother, 
I might see thee by his side ; 
But I know with gold they won thee 
And thy trusting heart beguil'd ; 
Thy 7nother, too, did shun me, 
For she knew I lov'd her child. 
Oh ! was it weel, etc. 

" They have giv'n her to another — 
She will love him, so they say ; 
If her mem'ry do not chide her, 
Oh, perhaps, perhaps she may; 
But I know that she hath spoken 
What she never can forget ; 
And tho' my poor heart be broken, 
It will love her, love her yet. 
Oh ! was it weel, etc." 

THE SLEEPER 

The Sleeper. Philadelphia" Saturday Museum," March 
4, 1843; 1845; " Broadway Journal," i. 18 | Irene. 
1831 ; " Southern Literary Messenger," May, 
1836. 
Text. 1845. Lorimer Graham copy. Other read- 
ings : — 

16 Insert after: — 
Her casemeftt open to the skies S. M. ; 1845 ; 
B.J. 
19 window I lattice S. M. 
20-21 omit S. M. 
46 pale \ dim S. M. ; 1845; B.J. 
162 



NOTES 

The first version is 1831, as follows, other early 
readings being noted below : — 

IRENE 

'T IS now (so sings the soaring moon) 

Midnight in the sweet month of June, 

When winged visions love to lie 

Lazily upon beauty's eye, 

Or worse — upon her brow to dance 

In panoply of old romance, 

Till thoughts and locks are left, alas ! 

A ne'er-to-be untangled mass. 

An influence dewy, drowsy, dim. 
Is dripping from that golden rim ; 
Grey towers are mouldering into rest. 
Wrapping the fog around their breast : 
Looking like Lethe, see ! the lake 
A conscious slumber seems to take 
And would not for the world awake : 
The rosemary sleeps upon the grave — 
The lily lolls upon the wave — 
And million bright pines to and fro 
Are rocking lullabies as they go. 
To the lone oak that reels with bliss, 
Nodding above the dim abyss. 

1-2 I stand beneath the soaring moon 
At midnight in the month of June. 

S. L. M. 
3-8 omit S. L. M. 
10 that \yon S. L. M. 
18 bright pines \ cedars S. L. M. 
20 reels with bliss \ noddifig ha7igs S. L. M. 
163 



NOTES 

All beauty sleeps : and lo ! where lies 
With casement open to the skies, 
Irene, with her destinies ! 
Thus hums the moon within her ear, 

" O lady sweet ! how earnest thou here ? 

" Strange are thine eyelids — strange thy dress ! 

" And strange thy glorious length of tress ! 

" Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, 

" A wonder to our desert trees ! 

" Some gentle wind hath thought it right 

" To open thy window to the night, 

*' And wanton airs from the tree-top, 

" Laughingly thro' the lattice drop, 

" And wave this crimson canopy, 

" Like a banner o'er thy dreaming eye I 

" Lady, awake ! lady awake ! 

" For the holy Jesus' sake ! 

" For strangely — fearfully in this hall 

" My tinted shadows rise and fall ! " 

The lady sleeps : the dead all sleep — 
At least as long as Love doth weep : 

21 Above yon cataract of Serangs S. L. M. 
25 And hark the sounds so low yet clear 
(Like music of another sphere) 
Which steal within the slumberer's ear, 
Or so appear — or so appear ! 

S. L. M. 
36 Like \as S. L. M. 

37-39 " That o'er the floor, and down the wall, 
" Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall — 
" Then for thine own all radiant sake, 
" Lady, awake ! awake ! awake ! " 

S. L. M. 

164 



NOTES 

Entranc'd, the spirit loves to lie 

As long as — tears on Memory's eye : 

But when a week or two go by, 

And the light laughter chokes the sigh, 

Indignant from the tomb doth take 

Its way to some remember'd lake, 

Where oft — in life — with friends — it went 

To bathe in the pure element, 

And there from the untrodden grass, 

Wreathing for its transparent brow 

Those flowers that say (ah hear them now ! j 

To the night-winds as they pass, 

«Ai! ai! alas!— alas!" 

Pores for a moment, ere it go, 

On the clear waters there that flow, 

Then sinks within (weigh'd down by wo) 

Th' uncertain, shadowy heaven below. 

The lady sleeps : oh ! may her sleep 

As it is lasting so be deep — 

No icy worms about her creep : 

I pray to God that she may lie 

Forever with as calm an eye, 

That chamber chang'd for one more holy — 

That bed for one more melancholy. 

Far in the forest, dim and old, 

For her may some tall vault unfold. 

Against whose sounding door she hath thrown, 

In childhood, many an idle stone — 

Some tomb, which oft hath flung its black 

And vam pyre-winged pannels back, 

40-58 omit S. L. M. 
71 winged \ wing-like S. L. M. 
165 



NOTES 

Flutt'ring triumphant o'er the palls 
Of her old family funerals. 

LENORE 

Lenore, The "Pioneer," February, 1843; Philadel- 
phia " Saturday Museum," March 4, 1843; 1845; 
"Broadway Journal," ii. 6 | ^ Pcean. 1831 ; 
"Southern Literary Messenger," January, 1836. 
Text. 1845, Lorimer Graham copy. Other readings: 
IV. "Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No 
dirge will I upraise, 
" But waft the angel on her flight with a 

Paean of old days ! 
" Let no bell toll ! — lest her sweet soul, amid 

its hallowed mirth, 
"Should catch the note, as it doth float — 

up from the damndd Earth. 
" To friends above, from fiends below, the 

indignant ghost is riven — 
" From Hell unto a high estate far up within 

the Heaven — 
" From grief and groan, to a golden throne, 
beside the King of Heaven." 

1845 : B. J. (except 

Poe wrote to Griswold, no date, 1849, enclosing 
copy for the new edition of Griswold's "Poets and 
Poetry of America " : " As regards ' Lenore ' I would 
prefer the concluding stanza to run as here written." 
No change appears in Griswold's texts. In the 
Lorimer Graham copy the revised version is written 
upon the margin, and a transposition of the first four 
hnes and the last three of stanza IV is indicated. In 
the judgment of the editors Poe meant only to substi- 
166 



tute the new four lines on the margin for the four 
which he crosses out, and has marked his caret in 
the wrong place ; the transposition has therefore not 
been made in the present text. 

The first version is 1831, as follows, the readings 
of the " Southern Literary Messenger " being noted 
below : — 

A P^AN 

How shall the burial rite be read ? 

The solemn song be sung ? 
The requiem for the loveliest dead 

That ever died so young ? 

Her friends are gazing on her, 

And on her gaudy bier, 
And weep ! — oh ! to dishonor 

Dead beauty with a tear ! 

They loved her for her wealth — 
And they hated her for her pride — 

But she grew in feeble health, 
And they love her — that she died. 

They tell me (while they speak 
Of her " costly broider'd pall ") 

That my voice is growing weak — 
That I should not sing at all — 

Or that my tone should be 

Tun'd to such solemn song 
So mournfully — so mournfully, 

That the dead may feel no wrong. 

But she is gone above, 

With young Hope at her side, 

II. 4 Dead\ Her S. L. M. 

167 



NOTES 

And I am drunk with love 
Of the dead, who is my bride. — 

Of the dead — dead who lies 

All perfum'd there, 
With the death upon her eyes 

And the life upon her hair. 

Thus on the coffin loud and long 

I strike — the murmur sent 
Through the gray chambers to my song, 

Shall be the accompaniment. 

Thou died'st in thy life's June — 
But thou didst not die too fair : 

Thou didst not die too soon, 
Nor with too calm an air. 

From more than fiends on earth 

Thy life and love are riven, 
To join the untainted mirth 

Of more than thrones in heaven — 

Therefore, to thee this night 
I will no requiem raise, 

VII. I dead who \ dead — who S. L. M. 

2 perfum'd there \ motionless S. L. M. 
4 her hair \ each tress S. L. M. 

VIII. omit S. L. M. 
IX. I, 2 In June she died — in June 

Of life — beloved, and fair S. L. M. 

3 Thou didst \ But she did S. L. M. 
X. 2 Thy life and love are \ Helen, 

thy soul is S. L. M. 
3 untainted \ all-hallowed S. L. M. 
i68 



NOTES 

But waft thee on thy flight, 
With a Paean of old days. 

The "Pioneer" version, 1843, is as follows, the 
readings of the "Saturday Museum" being noted 
below ; — 

LENORE 

Ah, broken is the golden bowl ! 

The spirit flown forever ! 
Let the bell toll ! — A saintly soul 
Glides down the Stygian river ! 
And let the burial rite be read — 

The funeral song be sung — 
A dirge for the most lovely dead 
That ever died so young ! 
And, Guy De Vere, 
Hast thou no tear ? 

Weep now or nevermore ! 
See, on yon drear 
And rigid bier. 

Low lies thy love Lenore ! 

" Yon heir, whose cheeks of pallid hue 

With tears are streaming wet. 
Sees only, through 
Their crocodile dew, 
A vacant coronet — 

False friends ! ye lov'd her for her wealth 

And hated her for pride. 
And, when she fell in feeble health. 
Ye bless'd her — that she died. 

How j-^^// the ritual, then, be read? 
The requiem how be sung 

L 4 Glides down \ Floats on S. M. 
169 



NOTES 

For her most wrong'd of all the dead 
That ever died so young ? " 
Peccavimus / 
But rave not thus ! 

And let the solemn song 
Go up to God so mournfully that she may feel no wrong ! 
The sweet Lenore 
Hath "gone before" 

With young Hope at her side, 
And thou art wild 
For the dear child 
That should have been thy bride — 
For her, the fair 
And debonair, 

That now so lowly lies — 
The life still there 
Upon her hair, 
The death upon her eyes. 
*' Avaunt ! — to-night 
My heart is light — 

No dirge will I upraise, 
But waft the angel on her flight 
With a Paean of old days ! 
Let no bell toll ! 
Lest her sweet soul. 

Amid its hallow'd mirth, 
Should catch the note 
As it doth float 
Up from the damned earth — 

To friends above, from fiends below, 
th' indignant ghost is riven — 
From grief and moan 
To a gold throne 
Beside the King of Heaven." 
170 



NOTES 

DREAMLAND 
Dreamland. "Graham's Magazine," June, 1844; 

1845 ; " Broadway Journal," i. 26. 
Text. 1845. Lorimer Graham copy. Other read- 
ings : — 

12 tears \ dews G. M. ; 1845; B. J. 
20 Insert after : — 

1-6, as above, except, 5, read my home for 
these lands ^ and, 6, this for an G. M. 
25 mountain G. M. ; B. J. 
38 Earth \ wonns G. M. ; B. J. 
Insert after : — 

1-6, as above, except, 5, read journeyed 
home for reached these lands^ and, 6, this 
for an G. M. 
47 its I the G. M. ; B. J. 

THE VALLEY OF UNREST 

The Valley of Unrest. "American Whig Review," 
April, 1845; 1845 I " Broadway Journal," ii. 9 | 
The Valley Nis. 1831 ; *' Southern Literary Mes- 
senger," February, 1836. 

Text. 1845. Other readings: — 

18 rustles Am. W. R. 

19 Unceasingly Am. W. R. 
27 Insert after: — 

They wave ; they weep ; and the tears as they 

well 
From the depths of each pallid lily-bell, 
Give a trickle and a tinkle and a knell. 

Am. W.R. 

The first version is 183 1, as follows, other early 
readings being noted below : — 
171 



NOTES 

THE VALLEY NIS 

Far away — far away — 
Far away — as far at least 
Lies that valley as the day 
Down within the golden east — 
All things lovely — are not they 
Far away — far away ? 

It is called the valley Nis. 

And a Syriac tale there is 

Thereabout which Time hath said 

Shall not be interpreted. 

Something about Satan's dart — 

Something about angel wings — 

Much about a broken heart — 

All about unhappy things : 

But " the valley Nis " at best 

Means " the valley of unrest." 

Once it smil'd a silent dell 

Where the people did not dwell, 

Having gone unto the wars — 

And the sly, mysterious stars. 

With a visage full of meaning. 

O'er the unguarded flowers were leaning : 

Or the sun ray dripp'd all red 

Thro' the tulips overhead, 

Then grew paler as it fell 

On the quiet Asphodel. 

Now the unhappy shall confess 
Nothing there is motionless : 

6 Far away — | One and all^ too S. L. M. 
24 the I tall S. L. M. 

172 



NOTES 

Helen, like thy human eye 
There th' uneasy violets lie — 
There the reedy grass doth wave 
Over the old forgotten grave — 
One by one from the treetop 
There the eternal dews do drop — 
There the vague and dreamy trees 
Do roU like seas in northern breeze 
Around the stormy Hebrides — 
There the gorgeous clouds do fly, 
Rustling everlastlingly, 
Through the terror-stricken sky, 
Rollmg like a waterfall 
O'er the horizon's fiery wall — 
There the moon doth shine by night 
With a most unsteady light — 
There the sun doth reel by day 
" Over the hills and far away." 

27-46 Now each visiter shall confess 
Nothing there is motionless : 
Nothing save the airs that brood 
O'er the enchanted solitude, 
Save the airs with pinions furled 
That slumber o'er that valley-world. 
No wind in Heaven, and lo ! the trees 
Do roll like seas, in Northern breeze. 
Around the stormy Hebrides — 
No wind in Heaven, and clouds do fly, 
Rustling everlastingly, 
Through the terror-stricken sky, 
Rolling, like a waterfall. 
O'er th' horizon's fiery wall — 
And Helen, like thy human eye, 
173 



NOTES 

THE CITY IN THE SEA 

The City in the Sea. " American Whig Review " 
(subtitle, A Prophecy), April, 1845 ; 1845 ; " Broad- 
way Journal," ii. 8 | The Doomed City. 1831 ; 
The City of Sin. " Southern Literary Messenger," 
August, 1836. 

Text. 1845. Other readings : — 

3 Far off in a region unblest Am. W. R. 
25 Around the inournfzd waters lie " 
28-35 onfiit Am. W. R. 
36 For no \ No miir7ituring Am. W. R. 
39 Some I a Am. W. R. 

41 Seas less hideously \ oceans not so sad Am. 
W. R. 
The first version is 1831, as follows, other early 

readings being noted below : — 

THE DOOMED CITY 

Lo ! Death hath rear'd himself a throne 

In a strange city, all alone, 

Far down within the dim west — 

And the good, and the bad, and the worst, and the best, 

Have gone to their eternal rest. 

Low crouched on Earth, some violets lie, 
And, nearer Heaven, some lilies wave 
All banner-like, above a grave. 
And one by one, from out their tops 
Eternal dews come down in drops. 
Ah, one by one, from off their stems 
Eternal dews come down in gems ! 

S. L. M. 
4 Attd I Where S. L. M. 

174 



NOTES 

There shrines and palaces and towers 

Are — not like anything of ours — 

O ! no — O ! no — ours never loom 

To heaven with that ungodly gloom \ 

Time-eaten towers that tremble not ! 

Around, by lifting winds forgot, 

Resignedly beneath the sky 

The melancholy waters lie. 

A heaven that God doth not contemn 

With stars is like a diadem 

We liken our ladies' eyes to them — 

But there ! That everlasting pall ! 

It would be mockery to call 

Such dreariness a heaven at all. 

Yet tho' no holy rays come down 

On the long night-time of that town. 

Light from the lurid, deep sea 

Streams up the turrets silently — 

Up thrones — up long-forgotten bowers 

Of sculptur'd ivy and stone flowers — 

Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls — 

Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls — 

Up many a melancholy shrine 

Whose entablatures intertwine 

The mask — the viol — and the vine. 

There open temples — open graves 
Are on a level with the waves — 
But not the riches there that lie 
In each idol's diamond eye, 
Not the gayly-jewell'd dead 

14-19 omit S. L. M. 

20 No holy rays from heaven come down S. L. M. 
22 But light from out the lurid sea. S. L. M. 
175 



NOTES 

Tempt the waters from their bed : 

For no ripples curl, alas ! 

Along that wilderness of glass — 

No swellings hint that winds may be 

Upon a far-off happier sea : 

So blend the turrets and shadows there 

That all seem pendulous in air, 

While from the high towers of the town 

Death looks gigantically down. 

But lo ! a stir is in the air ! 

The wave ! there is a ripple there ! 

As if the towers had thrown aside, 

In slightly sinking, the dull tide — 

As if the turret-tops had given 

A vacuum in the filmy Heaven : 

The waves have now a redder glow — 

The very hours are breathing low — 

And when, amid no earthly moans, 

Down, down that town shall settle hence, 

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 

Shall do it reverence, 

And Death to some more happy clime 

Shall give his undivided time. 

TO ZANTE 

To Zante. " Southern Literary Messenger," Jan- 
uary, 1837; Philadelphia "Saturday Museum," 
March 4, 1843 ; 1845 \ " Broadway Journal," li. 2. 
Text. " Southern Literary Messenger." 
Note. Chateaubriand. Itiniraire de Paris ct 
Jerusalem^ p. 15. Je souseris \ ses noma d' Isola 

53 Hell^ rising \ All Hades S. L. M. 
176 



NOTES 

d'oro, de Fior di Levante. Ce nom de fleur me 
rappelle que Fhyacinthe dtoit originaire de I'lle de 
Zante, et que cette ile regut son nom de la plante 
qu'elle avoit portee. 

SILENCE 

Silence. " Burton's Gentleman's Magazine," April, 
1840; Philadelphia "Saturday Museum," March 
4, 1843 ; 1845; "Broadway Journal," ii. 3. 

Text. 1845. Other readings : — 

2 which thus is \ life aptly B. M. ; S. M. 

3 A I The B. M.; S. M. 

THE COLISEUM 

The Coliseum. The Baltimore " Saturday Visiter," 
1833; "Southern Literary Messenger," August, 
183s; Philadelphia "Saturday Evening Post," 
June 12, 1841 ; Philadelphia " Saturday Museum," 
March 4, 1843 ; 1845 ; " Broadway Journal," ii. i. 

Text. 1845. No copy of the first issue is known. 
Other readings : — 
II Insert after : — 
Gaunt vestibules and phantom-peopled aisles 

S. L. M. 

20 gilded I yellow S. L. M. 

21 Insert after : — 

Here where on ivory couch the Caesar sate 
On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder 

S. L. M. 
26 But stay — these \ these crumbling j ivy-clad \ 

tottering S. L. M. 
28 crujnbling \ broken S. L. M. 
31 famed \ great S. L. M. 
177 



NOTES 

36 melody \ in old days S. L, M. 
39 impotent \ desolate S. L. M. 

Notes. This was the poem offered for the Baltimore 
prize. See Memoir. 

HYMN 

Hymn. "Southern Literary Magazine," April, 
1835 [Morella] ; " Burton's Gentleman's Maga- 
zine," November, 1839 [Morella]; "Tales of the 
Arabesque and Grotesque" 1840 [Morella]; 1845; 
" Broadway Journal," i. 25 [Morella], ii. 6. 
Text. 1845. Other readings : — 
I Insert before : — 

Sancta Maria ! turn thine eyes 
Upon the sinner's sacrifice 
Of fervent prayer and humble love 
From thy holy throne above. 

S. L. M. ; 1840 ; B. G. M. (except 
2 the \ a B. G. M. ; 1840). 

5 the I my J brightly \ gently S. L. M. ; B. G. M. 

6 not a cloud obscured \ no storms were in 

S. L. M.; B. G. M. 

8 grace \ love S. L. M. ; B. G. M. 

9 storms I clouds S. L. M. ; B. G. M. 
10 Darkly \ All S. L. M. ; B. G. M. 

ISRAFEL 

Israfel. 1831 ; " Southern Literary Messenger," Au- 
gust, 1836; "Graham's Magazine," October, 
1 841 ; Philadelphia " Saturday Museum," March 
4, 1843 ; 1845 ; " Broadway Journal," ii. 3. 
178 



NOTES 

Text. 1845. Other readings : — 

iv. 3 Where \ And S. M. ; B. J. 

iv. 4 Where \ And S. M. ; B. J. 

V. I Thou art not ^ therefore S. M. ; B. J. 
The first version is 1831, as follows, other early 
readings being noted below : — 

ISRAFELi 

I 
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 
Whose heart-strings are a lute ; 
None sing so wild — so well 
As the angel Israfel — 
And the giddy stars are mute. 

II 

Tottering above 

In her highest noon, 

The enamoured moon 

Blushes with love — 

While, to listen, the red levin 

Pauses in Heaven. 



And they say (the starry choir 
And all the listening things) 
That Israfeli's fire 
Is owing to that lyre 
With those unusual strings. 

III. 4 owing to I due unto G. M. 

1 And the angel Israfel, who has the sweetest voice of all God's 
creatures. — Koran. 

179 



NOTES 
IV 

But the Heavens that angel trod, 
Where deep thoughts are a duty- 
Where Love is a grown god — 
Where Houri glances are — 
Stay ! turn thine eyes afar ! 
Imbued with all the beauty 
Which we worship in yon star. 



Thou art not, therefore, wrong 
Israfeli, who despisest 
An unimpassion'd song : 
To thee the laurels belong, 
Best bard, — because the wisest. 

VI 

The extacies above 
With thy burning measures suit — 
Thy grief — if any — thy love 
With the fervor of thy lute — 
Well may the stars be mute ! 

VII 

Yes, Heaven is thine : but this 
Is a world of sweets and sours : 
Our flowers are merely — flowers, 
And the shadow of thy bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours. 

If I did dwell where Israfel 
Hath dwelt, and he where I, 



IV. 5 omit S. L. M.; G. M. 
i8o 



NOTES 

He would not sing one half as well — 
One half as passionately, 
While a stormier note than this would swell 
From my lyre within the sky. 

Notes. The motto of the poem was derived by Poe 
from Moore's " Lalla Rookh," where it is correctly 
attributed to Sale (Preliminary Discourse, iv. 71). 
The phrase, " whose heart-strings are a lute," was 
interpolated by Poe, as in the text. 

THE HAUNTED PALACE 

The Haunted Palace. Baltimore " Museum," April, 
1839 ; " Burton's Gentleman's Magazine" [The 
Fall of the House of Usher] ; September, 1839; 
Tales [the same] 1840; Philadelphia "Saturday 
Museum," March 4, 1843; 1845 ; Tales, 1845 [The 
Fall of the House of Usher]. 

Text. Philadelphia " Saturday Museum." Other 
readings : — 

I. 4 radiant \ snow-white B. M.; 1840; B.G.M. 

III. I all wanderers B. M. 

8 ruler \ sovereign B. M. ; B.C. M. 

IV. 5 sweet I sole B. G. M. 

VI. 5 ghastly rapid \ rapid ghastly ; B. M. ; B. G. 
M. ; 1840; Tales, 1845. 



VIII. A, as\so G. M. 

6 While a stormier \ And a loftier S. L, M. ; 
G. M. 



181 



NOTES 

THE CONQUEROR WORM 

The Conqueror Wor7n. " Graham's Magazine," Janu- 
ary, 1843; Philadelphia "Saturday Museum," 
March 4, 1843 ; 1845 ; " Broadway Journal," i. 21 ; 
ii. 12 [Ligeia]. 
Text. 1845. Lorimer Graham copy. Other readings : 
I. 3 An angel \ A mystic G. M. ; S. M. ; B. J. 
II. ^formless \ shadowy G. M. 
IV. 7 seraphs \ the angels all other editions. 
V. 2 quivering \ dying G. M. ; B. J. 

5 While I And all editions; angels \ seraphs 
G. M. ; pallid \ haggard G. M. 

8 And omit G. M.; S. M. ; B. J. 

ELDORADO 

Eldorado. Griswold, 1850. 

Text. Griswold. No earlier publication is known. 

EULALIE 

Eulalie. " American Whig Review " (sub-title, ASong) 
July, 1845 ; " Broadway Journal," ii. 5. 

Text. " Broadway Journal." Other readings : — 
II. 6 7nor7i-ti7its A. W. R. 
III. 4 And 1 While A. W. R, 

9 While \And A. W. R. 
10 While I And A. W. R. 

THE BELLS 

The Bells, " Sartain's Union Magazine," November, 

1849. 
Text. " Sartain's Union Magazine." An account of 

a draft and a manuscript is given below. 
182 



NOTES 

Notes. " Sartain's Union Magazine," December, 
1849. 

" The singular poem of Mr. Poe's, called ' The 
Bells,' which we published in our last number, has 
been very extensively copied. There is a curious 
piece of literary history connected with this poem, 
which we may as well give now as at any other time. 
It illustrates the gradual development of an idea in 
the mind of a man of original genius. This poem 
came into our possession about a year since. It then 
consisted of eighteen lines! They were as follows : 

"THE BELLS. — A SONG 

" The bells ! — hear the bells ! 
The merry wedding bells ! 
The little silver bells ! 
How fairy-like a melody there swells 
From the silver tinkling cells 
Of the bells, bells, bells ! 
Of the bells ! 

" The bells ! — ah, the bells ! 
The heavy iron bells ! 
Hear the tolling of the bells ! 
Hear the knells ! 
How horrible a monody there floats 
From their throats — 
From their deep-toned throats ! 
How I shudder at the notes 

From the melancholy throats 
Of the bells, bells, bells ! 
Of the bells ! 

" About six months after this we received the poem 
enlarged and altered nearly to its present size and 
183 



NOTES 

form ; and about three months since, the author sent 
another alteration and enlargement, in which condition 
the poem was left at the time of his death." 

Gill, " Life of Poe," p. 207 : — 

"The original MS. of 'The Bells,' in its enlarged 
form, from which the draft sent to ' Sartain's ' was 
made, is in our possession at this time. 

" In the twelfth line of the first stanza of the origi- 
nal draft, the word 'bells' was repeated ^^^ times, 
instead of four, as Poe printed it, and but twice in 
the next line. In changing and obviously improving 
the effect, he has drawn his pen through the fifth 
repetition, and added another, underlined, to the two 
of the next line. The same change is made in the 
corresponding lines in the next stanza. In the sixth 
line of the third stanza, the word 'much' is placed 
before ' too ' with the usual mark indicating the trans- 
position which he made in printing it, and, as origi- 
nally written, the word ' anger,' in the fifth line from 
the last in this stanza, was written ' clamor,' while 
' anger' was placed in the last line. ... In the sixth 
line of the fourth stanza, the word * meaning ' was 
first used in lieu of the more impressive 'menace,' 
to which it gave place. The eighth Hne of this stanza 
was first written, ' From out their ghostly throats ; ' 
and the eleventh line was changed twice, reading first, 
♦ Who live up in the steeple,' then ' They that sleep ' 
was substituted for ' who live,' and finally * dwell ' was 
printed instead of 'sleep.' After the eighteenth line, 
a line was added that was elided entirely in the poem 
as printed. It read, — 

"'But are pestilential carcasses departed from their 
souls.' 

184 



NOTES 

"... In making the change, omitting this line, he 
simply substituted, *They are ghouls,' in the next 
line, in pencil." 

Ingram, " Life of Poe," ii. 155-156 : — 

"It was shortly after this, during the summer, that 
Poe wrote the first rough draft of ' The Bells,' and at 
Mrs. Shew's residence. ' One day he came in,' she 
records [in her diary], ' and said, " Marie Louise, I 
have to write a poem ; I have no feeling, no sentiment, 
no inspiration." ' His hostess persuaded him to have 
some tea. It was served in the conservatory, the 
windows of which were open, and admitted the sound 
of neighboring church bells. Mrs. Shew said, play- 
fully, ' Here is paper ; ' but the poet, declining it, 
declared, * I so dislike the noise of bells to-night, I 
cannot write. I have no subject — I am exhausted.' 
The lady then took up the pen, and, pretending to 
mimic his style, wrote, ' The Bells, by E. A. Poe ; ' 
and then, in pure sportiveness, ' The Bells, the little 
silver Bells,' Poe finishing off the stanza. She then 
suggested for the next verse, ' The heavy iron Bells ; ' 
and this Poe also expanded into a stanza. He next 
copied out the complete poem, and headed it, ' By 
Mrs. M. L. Shew,' remarking that it was her poem, 
as she had suggested and composed so much of it. 
Mrs. Shew continues, ' My brother came in, and I 
sent him to Mrs. Clemm to tell her that "her boy 
would stay in town, and was well." My brother took 
Mr. Poe to his own room, where he slept twelve 
hours, and could hardly recall the evening's work.'" 

Chateaubriand. Genie du Christianisme^ ii. 261. 

" II nous semble que si nous dtions poete, nous ne 
d^daignerions point cette cloche agitiepar lesfafttomes 
185 



NOTES 

dans la vieille chapelle de la foret, ni celle qu'une re- 
ligieuse frayeur balangoit dans nos campagnes pour 
^carter le tonnerre, ni celle qu'on sonnoit la nuit, dans 
certains ports de mer, pour diriger le pilote k travers 
les dcueils. Les carillons des cloches, au milieu de 
nos fetes, sembloient augmenter I'all^gresse publique ; 
dans des calamitds, au contraire, ces memes bruits 
devenoient terribles. Les cheveux dressent encore 
sur la tete au souvenir de ces jours de meurtre et de 
feu, retentissant des clameurs du tocsin. Qui de nous 
a perdu la mdmoire de ces hurlements, de ces cris 
aigus, entrecoupds de silences, durant lesquels on dis- 
tinguoit de rares coups de fusil, quelque voix lamen- 
table et solitaire, et surtout le bourdonnement de la 
cloche d'alarme, ou le son de I'horologe qui frappoit 
tranquillement I'heure ^coulde ? " 

ANNABEL LEE 

Annabel Lee. New York "Tribune," Oct. 9, 1849; 

"Southern Literary Messenger," November, 1849; 

"Sartain's Union Magazine," January, 1850. 
Text. " Tribune." Other readings : — 

XL I /. . . she \She..,I S.L.M.; S. U. M. 

IIL 5 kinsman S. U. M. 

VL 8 soM7iding \ side of the S. L. M. 

ULALUME 

Ulalume. "American Whig Review" (sub-title, To 

), December, 1847; "Home Journal," 

Jan. I, 1848; Griswold, 1850. 
Text. Griswold, 1850. Other readings : — 

in. 9 We rejuembered Am. W. R. ; H. J. 
Vin. 5 But I And Am. W. R. ; H. J. 
IX. 13 This I In the Am. W. R.; H. J. 
186 



NOTES 

Insert after : — 

Said w^, then — the two, then— -"Ah, can it 

Have been that the woodlandish ghouls 
The pitiful, the merciless ghouls — 

To bar up our way and to ban it 

From the secret that lies m these wolds — 
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds — 

Had drawn up the spectre of a planet 
From the limbo of lunary souls 

This sinfully scintillant planet 

From the Hell of the planetary souls. 

Am. W. R.: H. J. 

Notes. " Home Journal," Jan. i, 1848. 

" We do not know how many readers we have who 
will enjoy, as we do, the following exquisitely piquant 
and skilful exercise of variety and niceness of lan- 
guage. It is a poem which we find in the ' American 
Review,* full of beauty and oddity in sentiment and 
versification, but a curiosity (and a delicious one we 
think) in philologic flavor. Who is the author?" Poe 
had requested Willis to ask the question (Poe to 
Willis. Dec. 8, 1847). 

SCENES FROM POLITIAN 

Scenes from PoUtian. " Southern Literary Messen- 
ger," December, 1835, January, 1836; 1845. 
Text. 1845. Other readings, S. L. M. : — 
II. 99 This sacred \ A vow — a 
III. 6 Surely \ I live — 

57 Eloquent \ voice — that 

58 I surely 

63 it \ that lattice 
1 01 Believe me \ Baldazzar ! Oh! 
187 



NOTES 

IV'. 5 sob 1 weep 

6 7nourn \ weep 

9 turn here thine eyes \ and listen to me 
30 to me I speak not 
V. 7 Paradisal Hope \ hopes — givemetolivt 
44 Insert after : — 

If that we meet at all it were as well 
That I should meet him in the Vati- 
can — 
In the Vatican — within the holy walls 
Of the Vatican. 
58 then at once \ — have at thee then 

62 thy sacred \ hold off thy 

63 indeed I dare not \ I dare not, dare not. 
65 Insert after : — 

exceeding well! — thou darest not fight 
with me ? 

70 Insert after : — 

Thou darest not / 

71 my lord \ alas / 

73 the veriest \ — / am — a 

92 Thou liest \ By Godj indeed \ — now this 

TO HELEN 

To Helen. 1831 ; "Southern Literary Messenger," 
March, 1836; "Graham's Magazine," September, 
1841 ; Philadelphia " Saturday Museum," March 
4, 1843; 1845. 
Text. Philadelphia "Saturday Museum." Other 
readings : — 
II. ^ glory that was \ beauty of fair 1831; 
S. L. M. 
5 that was \ of old 1831 ; S. L. M. 
188 



NOTES 

III. I yon brilliant \ that little 1831 ; S. L. M. ; 
shadowy G. M. 

3 agate lamp \ folded scroll 1831 ; S. L. M. ; 

G. M. 

4 Ah\ A 1831. 

TO F 

To F . 1845. "Broadway Journal," i. 17 | To 

Mary. "Southern Literary Messenger," July, 
1835. To One Departed. " Graham's Magazine," 
March, 1842; Philadelphia " Saturday Museum," 
March 4, 1843. 
Text, 1845. Other readings : — 

I. I Mary amid the cares — the woes S. L. M, 
For ''mid the earnest cares and woes G. M. ; 
S. M. 

2 That crowd \ crowding S. L. M. 

3 Drear \ Sad S. L. M. ; G. M. ; S. M. 
7 bland \ sweet S. L. M. 

II. I And thus \ Seraph G. M.; S. M. 

4 Some lake beset as lake can be S. L. M. 
throbbing far aitd free \ vexed as it may be 

G. M. ; S. M. 
G. M. and S. M. reverse the order of the stanzas. 
Notes. " F — -" is, presumably, Mrs. Frances Sar- 
gent Osgood. See Memoir. 

TO ONE IN PARADISE 

To One in Paradise. Philadelphia " Saturday Mu- 
seum," March 4, 1843; 1845; | "[Godey's] La- 
dy's Book " [The Visionary], January, 1834 ; 
" Southern Literary Messenger " [The Visionary], 
July, 1835; "Tales of the Arabesque and Gro- 
189 



NOTES 

tesque " [The Visionary], 1840; " Broadway Jour- 
nal," i. 19, i. 23 [The Assignation]. | To lanthe in 
Heaven. " Burton's Gentleman's Magazine," July, 
1839. 

Text. 1845. Lorimer Graham copy. 

I. I all that I that all all other editions. 

5 with fciry fruits and \ round with wild 
Go. around about with S. L. M. ; B. G. 
M. ; 1840. 
6 all the flowers \ the flowers — they all 
S. L. M.; B. G. M.; 1840. 
II. I But the dream — // could not last Go. ; S. 
L. M. ; B. G. M; 1840. 

2 Young Hope ! thou didst arise Go.; And 
the star of Hope did rise, S. L. M. ; B. G. 
M.; 1840. 

Ah I Oh! S. M. 

5 " On ! on " — but \ " Onward'' Go. ; S. L. 

M.; B. G. M.; 1840; B. J. ; but \ while 
Go.; S. L. M. ; B. G. M.; 1840. 

III. 2 Ambition — all — is o'^er Go.; S. L. M. ; 

B. G. M.; 1840. 

IV. I days \ hours Go.; S. L. M.; B.G. M.; 1840; 

And I Now B. J. 

3 S^^y I ^^^k all other editions. 

4 solemn \ breaking Go. 

6 eternal \ Italian Go. ; S. L. M. ; 1840 ; 
B. J. ; what \ far Go. 

Insert after : — 

Alas! for that accursed time 

They bore thee o'er the billow, 
From Love to titled age and crime 
And an unholy pillow — 
190 



NOTES 

From me, and from our misty clime 
Where weeps the silver willow. 

S. L. M.; 1840; Go. except 
3 Love I me 
5 me I Love 

A correspondent of the London *' Spectator," Jan. 
I, 1853, contributed a version from a manuscript 
long in his possession. It was reprinted in the New 
York "Literary World," Feb. 5, 1853. It is the 
same as that of the " Southern Literary Messenger," 
except 

I. I that omit 
II. 2 And the star of life did rise 
3 But I Only 

III. i-s Like the murmur of the solemn sea 

To sands on the sea-shore 
A voice is whispering unto me 
" The day is past," and nevermore 

IV. I And all mine hours 

2 nightly \ nights are 

3 Are I Of 

5-6 In the maze of flashing dances 
By the slow Italian streams. 

The correspondent had supposed the lines to be by 
Tennyson, and charged Poe with plagiarism. Ten- 
nyson, under date of Jan. 20, 1853, wrote to the 
" Spectator " to correct the statement and cleared Poe 
of the charge. The incident led an American corre- 
spondent to send to the "Literary World" a copy of 
the first version from " Godey's Lady's Book," and the 
text of Godey given above is here printed from that 
source. 

191 



NOTES 

TO F S S. O D 

To F s S.O d [Frances S. Osgood]. 1845 ; I 

Lines written in an Albiim. " Southern Literary 
Messenger," September, 1835. To . "Bur- 
ton's Gentleman's Magazine," August, 1839. To 
F . " Broadway Journal," ii. 10, lines 1-4. 

Text. 1845. Other readings : — 

I Eliza, let thy generous heart S. L. M. 
Fair maiden, let thy generous heart B. G. M. 

6 grace, thy more than \ unassuming S. L. M. ; 

B. G. M. 

7 shall be an endless \ And truth shall be a 

S. L. M. ; Thy truth — shall be a B. G. M. 

8 Forever — and love a duty S. L. M. ; B. G. M. 
Notes. "Eliza" was the young daughter of Mr. 

White, editor of the "Messenger." For Mrs. 
Osgood, see Memoir. 

A VALENTINE 

A Valentine. " Sartain's Union Magazine," March, 

1849; " Flag of our Union," 1849. 
Text. " Sartain's Union Magazine.'* 
Notes. To find the name, read the first letter in the 

first line, the second in the second, and so on. 

AN ENIGMA 

An Enigma. \ Sonnet. " Union Magazine." March, 

1848. 
Text. " Union Magazine." 

Notes. To find the name, read as in the preceding 
poem. 

10 Tuckertnanities j Petrarchmanities U. M. 
192 



NOTES 

TO HELEN 

To Helen. \ To " Union Magazine," 

November, 1848. 
Text. Griswold. 

26-28 O Heaven . , . me omit S. U. M. 
Notes. " Helen " was Mrs. Whitman ; see Memoir^ 

and compare " The Raven" in her poems. 

TO 

To (I heed not that my earthly lot). 1845 I Alone^ 

MS.; To M . 1829. 

Text. 1845. Other readings, 1829, the variations 

from it of the Wilmer MS. being noted. 

I I heed \ 01 I care MS. 

4 Hatred \ fever M S . 

5 mour7t I heed MS. 

7 sorrow for \ meddle with MS. 

8 Insert after: — 

It is not that my founts of bliss 
Are gushing — strange ! with tears — 
Or that the thrill of a single kiss 
Hath palsied many years — 
'T is not that the flowers of twenty springs 
Which have wither'd as they rose 
Lie dead on my heart-strings 
With the weight of an age of snows. 
Nor that the grass — O ! may it thrive ! 
On my grave is growing or grown — 
But that, while I am dead yet alive 
I cannot be, lady, alone. 
The MS. gives the following variations from the above: 

9 // is not I / heed not 

193 



NOTES 

10 Are gushing \ Be gushing^ oh! 

11 Or that the thrill of a single \ That the tremor 

of one 

19 yet I and 

20 lady I love 

TO M. L. S 

To M. Z. S . '• Home Journal," March 13, 1847. 

Text. " Home Journal." 

Notes. Introduced in the "Home Journal" by the 
following editorial note : " The following seems 
said over a hand clasped in the speaker's two. It 
is by Edgar A. Poe, and is evidently the pouring 
out of a very deep feeling of gratitude." " M. L. S.'* 
was Mrs. Shew ; see Me?noir. 

TO 

To . " Columbian Magazine," March, 1848. 

Text. Griswold. Other readings : — 

The original publication, which is identified by an 
index number of the magazine only, has not been 
found. The following manuscript variation exists in 
facsimile. The first seven lines show no variation. 
The poem then continues: — 

TO MARIE LOUISE 

Two gentle sounds made only to be murmured 
By angels dreaming in the moon-lit " dew 
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill" 
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart 
Unthought-like thoughts — scarcely the shades of 

thought — 
Bewildering fantasies — far richer visions 
194 



NOTES 

Than even the seraph harper, Israfel, 

Who "had the sweetest voice of all God's creatures," 

Would hope to utter. Ah, Marie Louise ! 

In deep humility I own that now 

All pride — all thought of power — all hope of fame — 

All wish for Heaven — is merged forevermore 

Beneath the palpitating tide of passion 

Heaped o'er my soul by thee. Its spells are broken — 

The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand — 

With that dear name as text I cannot write — 

I cannot speak — I cannot even think — 

Alas ! I cannot feel ; for 't is not feeling — 

This standing motionless upon the golden 

Threshold of the wide-open gate of Dreams, 

Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista, 

And thrilling as I see upon the right — 

Upon the left — and all the way along, 

Amid the clouds of glory : far away 

To where the prospect terminates — thee only. 

Notes. "Marie Louise" was Mrs. Shew; see 
Memoir. 

FOR ANNIE 

For Annie. " Flag of our Union," 1849 ; Griswold, 

1850. 
Text. Griswold. No file of the paper is known. 
Notes. " Annie " was a lady of Lowell, whose name 

has not been published; see Memoir. 

TO MY MOTHER 

To My Mother. " Flag of our Union," 1849. 
Text. Griswold. No file of the paper is known. 
Notes. His mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm. 
19s 



NOTES 

TAMERLANE 
Tamerlane. 1827, 1829, 1831, 1845. 
Text. 1845. Other readings : — 

The first version is 1827, as follows, the variations 
of the Wilmer MS. being noted below : — 

TAMERLANE 



I HAVE sent for thee, holy friar ;(i) 
But 't was not with the drunken hope, 
Which is but agony of desire 
To shun the fate, with which to cope 
Is more than crime may dare to dream, 
That I have call'd thee at this hour : 
Such, father, is not my theme — 
Nor am I mad, to deem that power 
Of earth may shrive me of the sin 
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in — 
I would not call thee fool, old man, 
But hope is not a gift of thine ; 
If I can hope (O God ! I can) 
It falls from an eternal shrine. 



The gay wall of this gaudy tower 
Grows dim around me — death is near. 
I had not thought, until this hour 
When passing from the earth, that ear 
Of any, were it not the shade 
Of one whom in life I made 
All mystery but a simple name, 
Might know the secret of a spirit 
196 



NOTES 

Bow'd down in sorrow, and in shame. — 
Shame, said'st thou ? 

Ay, I did inherit 
That hated portion, with the fame. 
The worldly glory, which has shown 
A demon-light around my throne. 
Scorching my sear'd heart with a pain 
Not Hell shall make me fear again. 

Ill 
I have not always been as now — 
The fever'd diadem on my brow 
I claim'd and won usurpingly — 
Ay — the same heritage hath given 
Rome to the Caesar — this to me ; 
The heirdom of a kingly mind — 
And a proud spirit, which hath striven 
Triumphantly with human kind. 

In mountain air I first drew life ; 
The mists of the Taglay have shed (^) 
Nightly their dews on my young head ; 
And my brain drank their venom then, 
When after day of perilous strife 
With chamois, I would seize his den 
And slumber, in my pride of power. 
The infant monarch of the hour — 
For, with the mountain dew by night, 
My soul imbibed unhallow'd feeling ; 
And I would feel its essence steaHng 
In dreams upon me — while the light 
Flashing from cloud that hover'd o'er. 
Would seem to my half-closing eye 
The pageantry of monarchy ! 
And the deep thunder's echoing roar 
197 



NOTES 

Came hurriedly upon me, telling 
Of war, and tumult, where my voice, 
My own voice, silly child ! was swelling 
(O how would my wild heart rejoice 
And leap within me at the cry) 
The battle-cry of victory ! 

IV 

The rain came down upon my head 
But barely shelter'd — and the wind 
Pass'd quickly o'er me — but my mind 
Was maddening — for 'twas man that shed 
Laurels upon me — and the rush, 
The torrent of the chilly air 
Gurgled in my pleased ear the crush 
Of empires, with the captive's prayer, 
The hum of suitors, the mix'd tone 
Of flattery round a sovereign's throne. 

The storm had ceased — and I awoke — 
Its spirit cradled me to sleep, 
And as it pass'd me by, there broke 
Strange Hght upon me, tho' it were 
My soul in mystery to steep : 
For I was not as I had been ; 
The child of Nature, without care, 
Or thought, save of the passing scene. — 



My passions, from that hapless hour, 
Usurp'd a tyranny, which men 
Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power, 
My innate nature — be it so: 
But, father, there lived one who, then — 
Then, in my boyhood, when their fire 
198 



NOTES 

Burn'd with a still intenser glow ; 
(For passion must with youth expire ) 
Even then^ who deem'd this iron heart 
In woman's weakness had a part. 

I have no words, alas ! to tell 
The loveliness of loving well ! 
Nor would I dare attempt to trace 
The breathing beauty of a face, 
Which even to my impassion'd mind, 
Leaves not its memory behind. 
In spring of life have ye ne'er dwelt 
Some object of delight upon, 
With steadfast eye, till ye have felt 
The earth reel — and the vision gone ? 
And I have held to memory's eye 
One object — and but one — until 
Its very form hath pass'd me by, 
But left its influence with me still. 

VI 

'T is not to thee that I should name — 
Thou canst not — wouldst not dare to think 
The magic empire of a flame 
Which even upon this perilous brink 
Hath fix'd my soul, tho' unforgiven. 
By what it lost for passion — Heaven. 
I loved — and O, how tenderly ! 
Yes ! she [was] worthy of all love ! 
Such as in infancy was mine, 

V. 14 breathing \ more than MS. 
15 my \ this MS. 
21 And I have \ So have I MS. 
199 



NOTES 

Tho' then its passion could not be : 
'T was such as angel minds above 
Might envy — her young heart the shrine 
On which my every hope and thought 
Were incense — then a goodly gift — 
For they were childish, without sin, 
Pure as her young example taught ; 
Why did I leave it and adrift, 
Trust to the fickle star within? 

VII 

We grew in age and love together, 
Roaming the forest and the wild; 
My breast her shield in wintry weather. 
And when the friendly sunshine smiled 
And she would mark the opening skies, 
I saw no Heaven but in her eyes — 
Even childhood knows the human heart ; 
For when, in sunshine and in smiles, 
From all our little cares apart, 
Laughing at her half silly wiles, 
I 'd throw me on her throbbing breast. 
And pour my spirit out in tears, 
She'd look up in my wilder'd eye — 
There was no need to speak the rest — 
No need to quiet her kind fears — 
She did not ask the reason why. 

The hallow'd memory of those years 
Comes o'er me in these lonely hours, 
And, with sweet loveliness, appears 
As perfume of strange summer flowers ; 
Of flowers which we have known before 
In infancy, which seen, recall 

200 



NOTES 

To mind — not flowers alone — but more, 
Our earthly life, and love — and all. 

VIII 

Yes ! she was worthy of all love 1 
Even such as from the accursed time 
My spirit with the tempest strove, 
When on the mountain peak alone, 
Ambition lent it a new tone. 
And bade it first to dream of crime, 
My frenzy to her bosom taught : 
We still were young : no purer thought 
Dwelt in a seraph's breast than thine; (2) 
For passionate love is still divine : 
/ loved her as an angel might 
With ray of the all living light 
Which blazes upon Edis' shrine.(^) 
It is not surely sin to name, 
With such as mine — that mystic flame, 
I had no being but in thee ! 
The world with all its train of bright 
And happy beauty (for to me 
All was an undefined delight), 
The world — its joy — its share of pain 
Which I felt not — its bodied forms 
Of varied being, which contain 
The bodiless spirits of the storms, 
The sunshine, and the calm — the ideal 

VIII. I Such as I taught herfrovt the time MS. 
7-10 There were no holier thoughts than 

thine MS. 
II her I thee MS. 

21 Which I felt not \ Unheeded then MS. 
201 



NOTES 

And fleeting vanities of dreams, 
Fearfully beautiful ! the real 
Nothings of mid day waking life — 
Of an enchanted life, which seems, 
Now as I look back, the strife 
Of some ill demon, with a power 
Which left me in an evil hour, 
All that I felt, or saw, or thought, 
Crowding, confused became 
(With thine unearthly beauty fraught) 
Thou — and the nothing of a name. 

IX 

The passionate spirit which hath known, 
And deeply felt the silent tone 
Of its own self-supremacy, — 
(I speak thus openly to thee, 
'T were folly now to veil a thought 
With which this aching breast is fraught) 
The soul which feels its innate right — 
The mystic empire and high power 
Given by the energetic might 
Of Genius, at its natal hour ; 
Which knows (believe me at this time, 
When falsehood were a tenfold crime, 
There is a power in the high spirit 
To know the fate it will inherit) 

30 Some \an MS. 
33 confused \ confusedly MS. 
IX. 4-10 omit MS. 

11 me at this ti?ne \ for now on 7ne MS. 

12 Truth flashes thro' eternity MS. 



NOTES 

The soul, which knows such power, will still 
Find Pride the ruler of its will. 

Yes ! I was proud — and ye who know 
The magic of that meaning word, 
So oft perverted, will bestow 
Your scorn, perhaps, when ye have heard 
That the proud spirit had been broken, 
The proud heart burst in agony 
At one upbraiding word or token 
Of her that heart's idolatry — 
I was ambitious — have ye known 
Its fiery passion ? — ye have not — 
A cottager, I mark'd a throne 
Of half the world, as all my own, 
And murmur'd at such lowly lot ! 
But it had pass'd me as a dream 
Which, of light step, flies with the dew. 
That kindling thought — did not the beam 
Of Beauty, which did guide it through 
The livelong summer day, oppress 
My mind with double loveliness — 



We walk'd together on the crown 
Of a high mountain, which look'd down 
Afar from its proud natural towers 
Of rock and forest, on the hills — 
The dwindled hills, whence amid bowers 
Her own fair hand had rear'd around, 

15 knows \ feels MS. 
26 Its I The MS. 
X. 6 own fair \ magic MS. 
203 



NOTES 

Gush'd shoutingly a thousand rills, 
Which as it were, in fairy bound 
Embraced two hamlets — those our own — 
Peacefully happy — yet alone — 

I spoke to her of power and pride — 
But mystically, in such guise, 
That she might deem it nought beside 
The moment's converse ; in her eyes 
I read (perhaps too carelessly) 
A mingled feeling with my own ; 
The flush on her bright cheek, to me, 
Seem'd to become a queenly throne 
Too well, that I should let it be 
A light in the dark wild, alone. 

XI 

There — in that hour — a thought came o*er 
My mind, it had not known before — 
To leave her while we both were young, — 
To follow my high fate among 
The strife of nations, and redeem 
The idle words, which, as a dream 
Now sounded to her heedless ear — 
I held no doubt — I knew no fear 
Of peril in my wild career ; 
To gain an empire, and throw down 
As nuptial dowry — a queen's crown, 
The only feeling which possest, 

8-IO Encircling with a glittering bound 

Of diamond sunshine and sweet spray 
Two mossy huts of the Taglay 
XI. 12-13 The undying hope which now opprest 
A spirit ne*er to be at rest MS. 
204 



NOTES 

With her own image, my fond breast — 
Who, that had known the secret thought 
Of a young peasant's bosom then, 
Had deem'd him, in compassion, aught 
But one, whom fantasy had led 
Astray from reason — Among men 
Ambition is chain'd down — nor fed 
(As in the desert, where the grand, 
The wild, the beautiful, conspire 
With their own breath to fan its fire) 
With thoughts such feeling can command ; 
Uncheck'd by sarcasm, and scorn 
Of those, who hardly will conceive 
That any should become "great," born(S) 
In their own sphere — will not believe 
That they shall stoop in life to one 
Whom daily they are wont to see 
Familiarly — whom Fortune's sun 
Hath ne'er shone dazzlingly upon. 
Lowly — and of their own degree — 

XII 

I pictured to my fancy's eye 
Her silent, deep astonishment, 

14 secret \ silent MS. 

17 ied\ thrown MS. 

18 Astray from reason \ Her mantle over MS. 

19 Ambition \ Lion Ambition \ nor fed \ omit 

MS. 
Insert after : — 
And crouches to a keeper'' s hand MS. 
^o As in the desert \ Not so in deserts MS. 

21 beautifies \ terrible MS. 

22 its I his MS. 

205 



NOTES 

When, a few fleeting years gone by 

(For short the time my high hope lent 

To its most desperate intent,) 

She might recall in him, whom Fame 

Had gilded with a conqueror's name 

(With glory — such as might inspire 

Perforce, a passing thought of one, 

Whom she had deem'd in his own fire 

Wither'd and blasted ; who had gone 

A traitor, violate of the truth 

So plighted in his early youth,) 

Her own Alexis, who should plight (^) 

The love he plighted then — again, 

And raise his infancy's delight, 

The bride and queen of Tamerlane. — 



XIII 

One noon of a bright summer's day 
I pass'd from out the matted bower 
Where in a deep, still slumber lay 
My Ada. In that peaceful hour, 
A silent gaze was my farewell. 
I had no other solace — then 
To awake her, and a falsehood tell 
Of a feign'd journey, were again 
To trust the weakness of my heart 
To her soft thrilling voice : To part 
Thus, haply, while in sleep she dream'd 
Of long dehght, nor yet had deem'd 
Awake, that I had held a thought 
Of parting, were with madness fraught; 
I knew not v/oman's heart, alas ! 
Tho' loved, and loving — let it pass. — 
206 



NOTES 
XIV 

I went from out the matted bower, 
And hurried madly on my way : 
And felt, with every flying hour, 
That bore me from my home, more gay; 
There is of earth an agony 
Which, ideal, still may be 
The worst ill of mortality. 
'T is bliss, in its own reality, 
Too real, to his breast who lives 
Not within himself but gives 
A portion of his willing soul 
To God, and to the great whole — 
To him, whose loving spirit will dwell 
With Nature, in her wild paths ; tell 
Of her wondrous ways, and telling bless 
Her overpowering loveliness ! 
A more than agony to him 
Whose failing sight will grow dim 
With its own living gaze upon 
That loveliness around : the sun — 
The blue sky — the misty light 
Of the pale cloud therein, whose hue 
Is grace to its heavenly bed of blue ; 
Dim ! tho' looking on all bright ! 
O God ! when the thoughts that may not pass 
Will burst upon him, and alas ! 
For the flight on Earth to Fancy given, 
There are no words — unless of Heaven. 



XV 



Look round thee now on Samarcand, C^) 
Is she not queen of earth ? her pride 
207 



NOTES 

Above all cities ? in her hand 
Their destinies ? with all beside 
Of glory, which the world hath known? 
Stands she not proudly and alone ? 
And who her sovereign ? Timur, he {^) 
Whom the astonish'd earth hath seen, 
With victory, on victory, 
Redoubling age ! and more, I ween, 
The Zinghis' yet re-echoing fame. (^) 
And now what has he ? what ! a name. 
The sound of revelry by night 
Comes o'er me, with the mingled voice 
Of many with a breast as light, 
As if 't were not the dying hour 
Of one, in whom they did rejoice — • 
As in a leader, haply — Power 
Its venom secretly imparts ; 
Nothing have I with human hearts. 

XVI 

When Fortune mark'd me for her own. 
And my proud hopes had reach'd a throne 
(It boots me not, good friar, to tell 
A tale the world but knows too well, 

XV. b proudly \ nobly MS. 

8 earth hath seen | people saw MS. 
9-1 1 Striding o'er empires haughtily, 
A diademed outlaw. 

More than the Zinghis in his fame. MS. 
12 what ! I even MS. 

16 the dying \ their parting MS. 

17 (9/1 From MS. 

20 Nothing have I \ And I have naught MS. 
208 



NOTES 

How by what hidden deeds of might, 
I clamber'd to the tottering height,) 
I still was young ; and well I ween 
My spirit what it e'er had been. 
My eyes were still on pomp and power, 
My wilder'd heart was far away 
In valleys of the wild Taglay, 
In mine own Ada's matted bower» 
I dwelt not long in Samarcand 
Ere, in a peasant's lowly guise, 
I sought my long-abandon 'd land ; 
By sunset did its mountains rise 
In dusky grandeur to my eyes : 
But as I wander'd on the way 
My heart sunk with the sun's ray. 
To him, who still would gaze upon 
The glory of the summer sun, 
There comes, when that sun will from him part, 
A sullen hopelessness of heart. 
That soul will hate the evening mist 
So often lovely, and will list 
To the sound of the coming darkness (known 
To those whose spirits hearken) [^°J as one 
Who in a dream of night would fiy, 
But cannot, from a danger nigh. 
What though the moon — the silvery moon — 
Shine on his path, in her high noon ; 
Her smile is chilly, and her beam 
In that time of dreariness will seem 
As the portrait of one after death ; 
A likeness taken when the breath 
Of young life, and the fire o' the eye, 
Had lately been, but had pass'd by. 
'T is thus when the lovely summer sun 
209 



NOTES 

Of our boyhood, his course hath run : 
For all we live to know — is known ; 
And all we seek to keep — hath flown ; 
With the noonday beauty, which is all. 
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall — 
The transient, passionate day-flower, (i^) 
Withering at the evening hour. 

XVII 

I reach'd my home — my home no more -« 
For all was flown that made it so — 
I pass'd from out its mossy door. 
In vacant idleness of woe. 
There met me on its threshold stone 
A mountain hunter, I had known 
In childhood, but he knew me not. 
Something he spoke of the old cot : 
It had seen better days, he said ; 
There rose a fountain once, and there 
Full many a fair flower raised its head : 
But she who rear'd them was long dead, 
And in such follies had no part. 
What was there left me now ? despair — 
A kingdom for a broken — heart. 

Readings varying from 1845, in 1829, 1831 : — 
3 dee7n \ think 183 1 
26 Insert after: — 

Despair, the fabled vampire-bat, 
Hath long upon my bosom sat, 
And I would rave, but that he flings 
A calm from his unearthly wings. 1831 
"i^o fierce \ omit 1831 
40 Have I Hath 1831 

21 



NOTES 

57 Was giant-like — so thou my mind 1829,1831 

73 this iro7i heart \ that as infinite 1831 

74 My soul — so was the weakness in it 1831 
Insert after: — 

For in those days it was my lot 

To haunt of the wide world a spot 

The which I could not love the less. 

So lovely was the loneliness 

Of a wild lake with black rock bound, 

And the sultan like pines that tower'd around! 

But when the night had thrown her pall 

Upon that spot as upon all, 

And the black wind murmur'd by, 

In a dirge of melody; 

My infant spirit would awake 

To the terror of that lone lake. 

Yet that terror was not fright — 

But a tremulous delight — 

A feeling not the jewell'd mine 

Could ever bribe me to define. 

Nor love, Ada! tho' it were thine. 

How could I from that water bring 

Solace to my imagining ? 

My solitary soul — how make 

An Eden of that dim lake ? 

But then a gentler, calmer spell 
Like moonlight on my spirit fell. 
But O ! I have no words to tell 1831 

'j'j Nor would 1 1 / will not 1 83 1 

81 Thus I \ I well 183 1 

82 Some page \ Pages 1831 

83 Oh^ she was \ Was she not 1831 

211 



NOTES 

1 06 throw me on her throbbing \ lean up 071 her gentle 

1831 
no her \ her's 1831 
I12-115 omit 1831 

119 Its joy — its little lot \ Of pleasure or 1831 

120 That was netv pleasure \ The good^ the bad 183 1 
128-138 omit 183 1 

151 071 her bright \ upon her 1831 
i^z to beco7ne\ fitted for 1831 
164 his I its 1 83 1 
166-177 

Say, holy father, breathes there yet 

A rebel or a Bajazet ? 

How now ! why tremble, man of gloom, 

As if my words were the Simoom ! 

Why do the people bow the knee, 

To the young Tamerlane — to me ! 1831 
202 splendor \ beauty 1831 
213-222 

I reached my home — what home? above 
My home — my hope — my early love, 
Lonely, like me, the desert rose, 
Bow'd down with its own glory grows. 1 831 

231 unpolluted \ undefiled 1831 

243 Insert after : — 

If my peace hath flown away 
In a night — or in a day — 
In a vision — or in none — 
Is it, therefore, the less gone ? 
I was standing 'mid the roar 
Of a wind-beaten shore, 
212 



NOTES 

And I held within my hand 
Some particles of sand — 
How bright ! and yet to creep 
Thro' my fingers to the deep ! 
My early hopes? no — they 
Went gloriously away, 
Like lightning from the sky — 
Why in the battle did not I ? 1 831. 

Notes by Poe 

Note i, page 196. 

I have sent for thee, holy friar. 

Of the history of Tamerlane little is known ; and 
with that httle I have taken the full liberty of a poet. 
— That he was descended from the family of Zinghis 
Khan is more than probable — but he is vulgarly 
supposed to have been the son of a shepherd, and to 
have raised himself to the throne by his own ad- 
dress. He died in the year 1405, in the time of Pope 
Innocent VII. 

How I shall account for giving him " a friar " as 
a death-bed confessor — I cannot exactly determine. 
He wanted some one to listen to his tale — and why 
not a friar? It does not pass the bounds of possibil- 
ity — quite sufficient for my purpose — and I have at 
least good authority on my side for such innovations. 

Note 2, page 197. 

The mists of the Taglay have shed, &c. 

The mountains of Belur Taglay are a branch of the 

Imaus, in the southern part of Independent Tartary. 

They are celebrated for the singular wildness and 

beauty of their valleys. 

I 213 



NOTES 

Note 3, page 201. 

No purer thought 
Dwelt in a seraph's breast than thine. 

I must beg the reader's pardon for making Tamer- 
lane, a Tartar of the fourteenth century, speak in the 
same language as a Boston gentleman of the nine- 
teenth; but of the Tartar mythology we have little 
information. 

Note 4, page 201. 
Which blazes upon Edis'' shrine. 

A deity presiding over virtuous love, upon whose 
imaginary altar a sacred fire was continually blazing. 

Note 5, page 205. 

who hardly will conceive 

That any should become ^^greai,''^ born 
In their own sphere — 

Although Tamerlane speaks this, it is not the less 
true. It is a matter of the greatest difficulty to make 
the generality of mankind believe that one with whom 
they are upon terms of intimacy shall be called, in the 
world, a " great man." The reason is evident. There 
are few great men. Their actions are consequently 
viewed by the mass of the people through the medium 
of distance. The prominent parts of their characters 
are alone noted ; and those properties, which are 
minute and common to every one, not being observed, 
seem to have no connection with a great character. 

Who ever read the private memorials, correspond- 
ence, &:c., which have become so common in our 
time, without wondering that "great men " should act 
and think " so abominably " t 
214 



NOTES 

Note 6, page 206. 
Her own Alexis^ who should plight, Sec. 

That Tamerlane acquired his renown under a feigned 
name is not entirely a fiction. 

Note 7, page 207. 
Look round thee now on Samarcand, 
I believe it was after the battle of Angora that 
Tamerlane made Samarcand his residence. It became 
for a time the seat of learning and the arts. 

Note 8, page 208. 
And who her sovereign ? Timur, &c. 

He was called Timur Bek as well as Tamerlane. 

Note 9, page 208. 
The Zinghis* yet re-echoing fame. 
The conquests of Tamerlane far exceeded those of 
Zinghis Khan. He boasted to have two thirds of the 
world at his command. 

Note 10, page 209. 

The sotmd of the coming darkness {known 
To those whose spirits hearken) 

I have often fancied that I could distinctly hear the 
sound of the darkness, as it steals over the horizon — • 
a foolish fancy, perhaps, but not more unintelligible 
than to see music — 

" The mind the music breathing from her face." 

Note ii, page 210. 
Let life then, as the day-flower, fall. 

There is a flower (I have never known its botanic 
name), vulgarly called the day-flower. It blooms 
215 



NOTES 

beautifully in the daylight, but withers towards even- 
ing, and by night its leaves appear totally shrivelled 
and dead. I have forgotten, however, to mention in 
the text, that it lives again in the morning. If it will 
not flourish in Tartary, I must be forgiven for carrying 
it thither. 

Notes. The history of the poem is given in the 
Memoir, In the edition of 1845 it was accompanied 
with the following " Advertisement : This poem was 
printed for publication in Boston, in the year 1827, but 
suppressed through circumstances of a private nature." 
The " Early Poems " in the same edition were excused 
by the following note : " Private reasons — some of 
which have reference to the sin of plagiarism, and 
others to the date of Tennyson's first poems — have 
induced me after some hesitation to republish those, 
the crude compositions of my earliest boyhood. They 
are printed verbatmi — without alteration from the 
original edition — the date of which is too remote to 
be judiciously acknowledged." 



TO SCIENCE 

To Science. 1829; 1831 ; "Southern Literary Mes- 
senger," May, 1836; 1845; " Broadway Journal," 
ii. 4. 

Text. Philadelphia "Saturday Museum." Other 
readings : — 

I true I meet 1829; 1831 ; S. L. M. 
8 soared \ soar S. L. M. 
12 The gentle Naiad from her fountai7i flood 

1829; S. L. M. 
14 tamarind tree \ shrubbery 1831 ; S. L. M. 
216 



NOTES 

AL AARAAF 

Al Aaraaf. 1829, 1831, 1845; lines I. 66-67, 7o-79> 
82-101; 126-129; 11.20-21,24-27,52-59,68-135; 
Philadelphia " Saturday Museum," March 4, 1843. 
Text. 1845. Other readings : — 
I-15 Mysterious star ! 

Thou wert my dream 

All a long summer night — 

Be now my theme ! 

By this clear stream, 

Of thee will I write ; 

Meantime from afar 

Bathe me in Hght ! 

Thy world has not the dross of ours. 
Yet all the beauty — all the flowers 
That list our love, or deck our bowers 
In dreamy gardens, where do lie 
Dreamy maidens all the day, 
While the silver winds of Circassy 
On violet couches faint away. 

Little — oh ! little dwells in thee 
Like unto what on Earth we see ; 
Beauty's eye is here the bluest 
In the falsest and untruest — 
On the sweetest air doth float 
The most sad and solemn note — 
If with thee be broken hearts, 
Joy so peacefully departs, 
That its echo still doth dwell. 
Like the murmur in the shell. 
217 



NOTES 

Thou ! thy truest type of grief 

Is the gently falling leaf — 

Thou ! thy framing is so holy 

Sorrow is not melancholy. 1831. 

II O/i \ With 1829 

ig An oasis \ a gardeti-spot 1829, 1 83 1 

43 rear 1831 

95 red omit 1831 
128 All\ Here 1829, 1831 
Part II. i-}, peerid \ venhired 1829 

99 lead\ hang 1829, 1831 
197 the orb of Earth \ one constant star 

1829, 1 83 1 
213 he I it 1829, 1831 

The variations of the " Saturday Museum " show a 
later revision than the text represents ; but it has not 
been thought desirable to embody them in the text, as 
Poe himself did not do so on his last publication of it. 
They are as follows : — 

I. 88 Which I That 

127 merest \ veriest 

128 AU\ Here 

II. 53 cheeks were \ cheek was 
^6 that I this 
58 fairy \ brilliant 

91 wings 

92 Each . . . thing \ All . , . things 
94 would I will 

liy a deep dreatny 

Some lines also are transposed from one place to 
another in the passages from II. 20-59. 
218 



NOTES 



Notes by Poe 



p. 107. A I Aaraaf. — A star was discovered by 
Tycho Brahe, which appeared suddenly in the heavens; 
attained, in a few days, a brilliancy surpassing that of 
Jupiter ; then as suddenly disappeared, and has never 
been seen since. 

p. 108. Capo Deucato. — On Santa Maria — olim 
Deucadia of her who loved. Sappho. 

Flower of Trebizond. — This flower is much noticed 
by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort. The bee feeding 
upon its blossom becomes intoxicated. 

p. 109. Clytia. — Clytia, — the Chrysanthemum 
Peruvianum, or, to employ a better-known term, the 
turnsol, — which turns continually toward the sun, 
covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it 
comes, with dewy clouds which cool and refresh its 
flowers during the most violent heat of the day. — 
B. DE St. Pierre. 

And that aspiring flower. — There is cultivated, in 
the king's garden at Paris, a species of serpentine 
aloes without prickles, whose large and beautiful 
fliower exhales a strong odor of the vanilla, during 
the time of its expansion, which is very short. It 
does not blow till toward the month of July — you 
then perceive it gradually open its petals — expand 
them — fade and die. — St. Pierre. 

Valisnerian lotus. — There is found, in the Rhone, 
a beautiful lily of the Valisnerian kind. Its stem will 
stretch to the length of three or four feet, thus pre- 
serving its head above water in the swellings of the 
river. 

And thy most lovely purple perfume. — The Hya- 
cinth. 

219 



NOTES 

Indian Cupid. — It is a £ction of the Indians, that 
Cupid was first seen floating in one of these down the 
river Ganges, and that he still loves the cradle of his 
childhood. 

Odors. — And golden vials full of odors which are 
the prayers of the saints Rev. St. John. 

p. no. A model. — The Humanitarians held that 
God was to be understood as having really a human 
form. — Vide Clarke's Sermons^ vol. i. page 26, fol. 
edit. 

The drift of Milton's argument leads him to employ 
language which would appear, at first sight, to verge 
upon their doctrine ; but it will be seen immediately 
that he guards himself against the charge of having 
adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark 
ages of the Church. — Dr. Sumner's Notes on Mil- 
ton's Christian Doctrine. 

This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the 
contrary, could never have been very general. 
Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned 
for the opinion as heretical. He lived in the begin- 
ning of the fourth century. His disciples were called 
Anthropomorphites. — Vide Du Pin. 

Among Milton's minor poems are these lines : 

Dicite sacrorum praesides nemorum Dese, &c. 
Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine 
Natura solers finxit humanum genus ? 
Eternus, incorruptus, asquaevus polo, 
Unusque et universus exemplar Dei. 

And afterward : — 

Non cui profundum Cascitas lumen dedit 
Dirca&us augur vidit hunc alto sinu, &c. 

220 



NOTES 

Fantasy. Seltsamen Tochter Jovis 
Seinem Schosskinde 
Der Phantasie. — Goethe. 

p. 1 1 1 . Sightless, — Too small to be seen. — Legge. 

Firefiies. — I have often noticed a peculiar movement 
of the fire-flies, — they will collect in a body and fly 
off, from a common centre, into innumerable radii. 

p. 112. ^/^^^(^j-^^;^. — Therasaea, or Therasea, the 
island mentioned by Seneca, which, in a moment, 
arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished mariners. 

Of molten stars. 
Some star which, from the ruin'd roof 
Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance did fall.— Milton. 

p. 113. Persepolis, — Voltaire, in speaking of Perse- 
polis, says : " Je connois bien I'admiration qu'inspirent 
cesruines — mais un palais drigd au pied d'une chaine 
des rochers sterils — pent il etre un chef-d'cEUvre des 
arts?" 

Gomorrah. — " Oh ! the wave " — Ula Deguisi is the 
Turkish appellation ; but, on its own shores, it is 
called Bahar Loth, or Almotanah. There were un- 
doubtedly more than two cities engulfed in the " dead 
sea." In the valley of Siddim were five, — Adrah, 
Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom, and Gomorrah. Stephen of 
Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen (en- 
gulfed), — but the last is out of all reason. 

It is said [Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of 
St. Saba, Nau, Mundrell, Troilo, D'Arvieux], that 
after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, 
walls, etc., are seen above the surface. At any sea- 
son, such remains may be discovered by looking down 
into the transparent lake, and at such distances as 
would argue the existence of many settlements in the 
space now usurped by the " Asphaltites." 
221 



NOTES 

Eyraco. — Chaldea. 

Who sees the darkness. — I have often thought I 
could distinctly hear the sound of the darkness as 
it stole over the horizon. 

p. 114. Young flowers. — Fairies use flowers for 
their charactery. — Merry Wives of Windsor. 

The moonbeam. — In Scripture is this passage — 
" The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon 
by night." It is perhaps not generally known that the 
moon, in Egypt, has the effect of producing blindness 
to those who sleep with the face exposed to its rays, 
to which circumstance the passage evidently alludes. 

p. 115. Albatross. — The Albatross is said to sleep 
on the wing. 

p. 116. The 7nurmur that spi'ings. — I met with 
this idea in an old English tale, which I am now un- 
able to obtain, and quote from memory, — " The verie 
essence and, as it were, springe-heade and origine of 
all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the 
trees of the forest do make when they growe." 

Have slept with the bee. — The wild bee will not 
sleep in the shade if there be moonlight. 

The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines 
before, has an appearance of affectation. It is, how- 
ever, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claud 
Halcro — in whose mouth I admired its effect : — 

Oh ! were there an island, 

Tho' ever so wild 
Where woman might smile, and 

No man be beguil'd, etc. 

p. 117. Apart from Heaven'' s Eternity. — With the 
Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell, 
where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain 

222 



NOTES 

that tranquil and even happiness which they suppose 
to be characteristic of heavenly enjoyment. 

Un no rompido sueno — 

Un dia puro — allegre — libre 

Qui era — 

Libre de amor — de zelo — 

De odio — de esperanza — de rezelo. 

Luis Ponce de Leon. 
Sorrow is not excluded from " Al Aaraaf," but it is 
that sorrow which the living love to cherish for the 
dead, and which, in some minds, resembles the 
delirium of opium. The passionate excitement of 
Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon 
intoxication are its less holy pleasures, — the price of 
which, to those souls who make choice of " Al 
Aaraaf " as their residence after life, is final death 
and annihilation. 

Tears, of perfect moan. 

There be tears of perfect moan 
Wept for thee in Helicon. — Milton. 

p. 119. Parthenon. — It was entire in 1687 — the 
most elevated spot in Athens. 
Than even thy glowing bosom. 

Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows 
Than have the white breasts of the Queen of 
Love. — Marlowe. 

Pennoned. — Pennon — for pinion. — Milton. 

Notes. The notes by Poe are partly from Moore's 
" Lalla Rookh," Chateaubriand's " Itindraire," and 
other authorities easily traced. In the edition of 1829 
the notes are worded, in a few instances, differently. 
223 



NOTES 

"THE HAPPIEST DAY — THE HAPPIEST 
HOUR" 

" The Happiest Day — The Happiest Hourr 1827. 
Text. 1827. 

STANZAS 

" In Youth Have I Known One With Who?n the 

Earth:' 1827. 
Text. 1827. 

EVENING STAR 
Evening Star. 1827. 
Text. 1827. 

DREAMS 

Dreams. 1827. 

Text. 1827. Other readings, from the Wilmer MS., 
in this instance contemporary, but not auto- 
graphic. 

5 cold\ dull MS. 

6 inust I shall MS. 

7 still upon the lovely \ ever on the chilly MS. 

14 dreams of living \ dreaiy fields of MS. 

1 5 loveliness have left my very \ left miheed- 

ijtgly my MS. 

THE LAKE. TO 

The Lake: To . 1827, 1829, 183 1 (in Tafner- 

lane), 1845. 
Text. 1845. Other readings : — 

The first version is 1827, as follows, other early 
readings, including those of the Wilmer MS., being 
noted below : — 

224 



NOTES 

THE LAKE 
In youth's spring it was my lot 
To haunt of the wide earth a spot 
The which I could not love the less ; 
So lovely was the loneliness 
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, 
And the tall pines that tower'd around. 
But when the night had thrown her pall 
Upon that spot — as upon all, 
And the wind w<iuld pass me by 
In its stilly melody, 
My infant spirit would awake 
To the terror of the lone lake. 
Yet that terror was not fright — 
But a tremulous delight. 
And a feeling undefined, 
Springing from a darken'd mind. 
Death was in that poison'd wave 
And in its gulf a fitting grave 
For him who thence could solace bring 
To his dark imagining ; 
Whose wildering thought could even make 
An Eden of that dim lake. 
Compare also "Tamerlane," 1831, infra, pp. 210-21 1. 

9 wind would pass me by \ black wind murmured 

by 1829 

10 In its stilly \ in a stilly MS. ; in a dirge of 1829 

11 infant \ boyish MS. 

15-16 A feeling not the jewell'd mine 

Should ever bribe me to define — 

Nor Love — although the Love be thine 1829 

20 dark \ lone MS. 1829 

21 Whose solitary soul could make MS. 1829 

225 



NOTES 

SPIRITS OF THE DEAD 
Spirits of the Dead, 1829; "Burton's Gentleman's 
Magazine," July, 1839 5 I ^^^^^ of the Dead, 1827. 
Text. " Burton's Gentleman's Magazine," except as 
noted. Other readings, including those of the Wil- 
mer MS., in this instance a contemporary, but not 
autographic copy : — 
10 Shall over \ shall then o'er MS. 

18 Insert after: — 

But 't will leave thee as each star 
With the dewdrop flies afar. MS. 

19 shall I canst MS. 
21-22 transpose MS. 

22 dewdrops \ dewdrop MS.; 1829; B. G. M. 
The first version is 1827, as follows : — 

VISIT OF THE DEAD 



Thy soul shall find itself alone — 
Alone of all on earth — unknown 
The cause — but none are near to pry 
Into thine hour of secrecy. 
Be silent in that solitude. 
Which is not loneliness — for then 
The spirits of the dead, who stood 
In life before thee, are again 
In death around thee, and their will 
Shall then o'ershadow thee — be still: 
For the night, tho' clear, shall frown; 
And the stars shall look not down 
From their thrones, in the dark heaven, 
With light like Hope to mortals given, 
But their red orbs, without beam, 
226 



NOTES 

To thy withering heart shall seem 

As a burning, and a fever 

Which would cling to thee forever. 

But 't will leave thee, as each star 

In the morning light afar 

Will fly thee — and vanish : 

— But its thought thou canst not banish. 

The breath of God will be still ; 

And the mist upon the hill 

By that summer breeze unbroken 

Shall charm thee — as a token, 

And a symbol which shall be 

Secrecy in thee. 

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM 

A Dream within a Dream. Griswold, 1850. | Imi' 

tation, 1827; To ,1829; Tamerlane, 1831. 

Text. Griswold, 1850. Other readings: — 
The first version of these lines is 1827, as follows: 

IMITATION 

A DARK unfathom'd tide 
Of interminable pride — 
A mystery, and a dream. 
Should my early life seem ; 
I say that dream was fraught 
With a wild, and waking thought 
Of beings that have been. 
Which my spirit hath not seen, 
Had I let them pass me by. 
With a dreaming eye ! 
Let none of earth inherit 
That vision on my spirit; 
227 



NOTES 

Those thoughts I would control, 
As a spell upon his soul : 
For that bright hope at last 
And that light time have past, 
And my world arrest hath gone 
With a sigh as it pass'd on : 
I care not tho' it perish 
With a thought I then did cherish. 
This poem was revised in 1829, as follows, the varia- 
tions of the Wilmer MS. being noted below : — 

TO 



Should my early life seem 
[As well it might] a dream - 
Yet I build no faith upon 
The King Napoleon — 
I look not up afar 
To my destiny in a star: 



In parting from you now 
Thus much I will avow — 
There are beings, and have been 
Whom my spirit had not seen 
Had I let them pass me by 
With a dreaming eye — 
If my peace hath fled away 
In a night — or in a day — 
In a vision — or in none — 
Is it therefore the less gone? 

I. 6 To\ For MS. 
II. 10 therefore \ omit MS. 
228 



NOTES 



I am standing 'mid the roar 
Of a weather-beaten shore, 
And I hold within my hand 
Some particles of sand — 
How few ! and how they creep 
Thro' my fingers to the deep ! 
My early hopes ? no — they 
Went gloriously away, 
Like lightning from the sky 
At once — and so will I. 

So young ! ah ! no — not now — 
Thou hast not seen my brow, 
But they tell thee I am proud — 
They lie — they lie aloud — 
My bosom beats with shame 
At the paltriness of name 
With which they dare combine 
A feeling such as mine — 
Nor Stoic ? I am not : 
In the terror of my lot 
I laugh to think how poor 
That pleasure " to endure ! " 
What ! shade of Zeus ! — I ! 
Endure ! — no — no — defy. 

The lines 13-27, reappear revised in "Tamerlane," 
1 83 1, infra^ p. 212. 

SONG 

Song (I saw thee on thy bridal day). 1827, 1829, 
1845 > "Broadway Journal," ii. 11. 
229 



NOTES 

Text. 1845. Other readings, including those of the 
Wilmer MS. : — 

I. I thy I the 1827 

II. 2 Of you7ig passion free 1827 

3 aching \ chained I'^i'] \ fetter' d 1829 

4 could I 7night 1827 
1-4 omit, MS. 

III. I perhaps \ I ween 1827 



TO THE RIVER 

To the River . 1829; "Burton's Gentleman's 

Magazine," August, 1839; Philadelphia "Satur- 
day Museum," March 4, 1843; 1845; "Broadway 
Journal," ii. 9. 
Text. Philadelphia "Saturday Museum." Other 
readings, including those of the Wilmer MS. : — 
I. 2 crystal wandering \ labyrinth-like MS. 
1829; B. G. M. 
II. 4 Her worshipper \ Thy pretty self MS. 
5 His I my MS. 1829; B. G. M. ; B. J. 

7 His I The MS. 1829; B.G.M.; B. J.; 
deeply \ lightly MS. 

8 of her soul-searching \ The scrutiny of her 

MS. 1829; B. G. M. 

TO 

To (The bowers whereat in dreams I saw). 

1829, 1845; " Broadway Journal," ii. 11. 
Text. 1845. Other readings : — 
III. 3 The I omit 1829. 

4 baubles \ trifles 1829. 
230 



NOTES 

A DREAM 

A Dream. 1829, 1845; "Broadway Journal," ii. 6 ] no 

title, 1827. 
Text, 1845. Other readings : — 
I. Insert before: 

A wildr'd being from my birth, 
My spirit spurn'd control, 
But now, abroad on the wide earth, 1827. 
Where wanderest thou, my soul ? 
II. I Ah I And 1827, 1829 
IV. I Storm and \ misty 1827 

2 Trembled from \ dimly shone 1827 

ROMANCE 

Romance. Philadelphia " Saturday Museum," March 4, 

1843; 1845; " Broadway Journal," ii. 8 | Preface^ 

1829; Introduction, 1831. 
Text. 1845. Other readings : — 

12 Heavens B. J. 

14 I scarcely have had time for cares S. M. 
The version of 183 1 is as follows, earlier readings of 
1829 being noted below : — 

INTRODUCTION 

Romance, who loves to nod and sing, 
With drowsy head and folded wing, 
Among the green leaves as they shake 
Far down within some shadowy lake. 

To me a painted paroquet 
Hath been — a most familiar bird — 

Taught me my alphabet to say, — 
To lisp my very earliest word 
2^,1 



NOTES 

While in the wild-wood I did lie 
A child — with a most knowing eye. 

Succeeding years, too wild for song, 
Then roll'd like tropic storms along. 
Where, tho' the garish lights that fly, 
Dying along the troubled sky 
Lay bare, thro' vistas thunder-riven. 
The blackness of the general Heaven, 
That very blackness yet doth fling 
Light on the lightning's silver wing. 

For, being an idle boy lang syne, 

Who read Anacreon, and drank wine, 

I early found Anacreon rhymes 

Were almost passionate sometimes — 

And by strange alchemy of brain 

His pleasures always turn'd to pain — 

His naivete to wild desire — 

His wit to love — his wine to fire — 

And so, being young and dipt in folly 

I fell in love with melancholy. 

And used to throw my earthly rest 

And quiet all away in jest — 

I could not love except where Death 

Was mingling his with Beauty's breath — 

Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny 

Were stalking between her and me. 

O, then the eternal Condor years, 
So shook the very Heavens on high, 

11-34 omit 1829 

35 O, then the \ Of late 1829. 

36 shook the very Heavejts \ shake the very air 

1829 

232 



NOTES 

With tumult as they thunder'd by ; 
I had no time for idle cares, 
Thro' gazing on the unquiet sky ! 
Or if an hour with calmer wing 
Its down did on my spirit fling, 
That little hour with lyre and rhyme 
To while away — forbidden thing ! 
My heart half fear'd to be a crime 
Unless it trembled with the string. 

But now my soul hath too much room — 
Gone are the glory and the gloom — 
The black hath mellow'd into grey, 
And all the fires are fading away. 

My draught of passion hath been deep — 
I revell'd, and I now would sleep — 
And after-drunkenness of soul 
Succeeds the glories of the bowl — 
And idle longing night and day 
To dream my very life away. 

But dreams — of those who dream as I, 
Aspiringly, are damned, and die : 
Yet should I swear I mean alone, 
By notes so very shrilly blown, 

37 thunder'd \ thunder 1829. 

38 I hardly have had time for cares 1829. 

40 Or if . . . wi7tg I A?id when . . . wings 1829. 

41 did on . . .fling \ upon . . .flings 1829. 

43 thing I things 1829, 

44 halffeared \ would feel 1829. 

45 Unless it trembled . . . string \ Did it not 

tremble . . . strings 1829. 
46-66 omit 1829. 

233 



NOTES 

To break upon Time's monotone, 
While yet my vapid joy and grief 
Are tintless of the yellow leaf — 
Why not an imp the graybeard hath 
Will shake his shadow in my path — 
And even the graybeard will o'erlook 
Connivingly my dreaming book. 

FAIRY-LAND 
Fairy-land. 1829, 183 1, 1845 ; " Burton's Gentleman's 
Magazine," August, 1839; "Broadway Journal," 
ii. 13. 
Text. 1845. Other readings : — 

The version of 1831 is as follows, other early read- 
ings being noted below : — 

FAIRY-LAND 
Sit down beside me, Isabel, 
Here, dearest, where the moonbeam fell 
Just now so fairy-like and well. 
Now thou art dress'd for paradise ! 
I am star-stricken with thine eyes ! 
My soul is loUing on thy sighs ! 
Thy hair is lifted by the moon 
Like flowers by the low breath of June ! 
Sit down, sit down — how came we here ? 
Or is it all but a dream, my dear ? 

You know that most enormous flower — 

That rose — that what d 'ye ye call it — that hung 

Up like a dog-star in this bower — 

To-day (the wind blew, and) it swung 

So impudently in my face, 

1-40 omit 1829, B. G. M. 1845 > ^- J- "• ^3- 

234 



NOTES 

So like a thing alive you know, 
I tore it from its pride of place 
And shook it into pieces — so 
Be all ingratitude requited. 
The winds ran off with it delighted, 
And, thro' the opening left, as soon 
As she threw off her cloak, yon moon 
Has sent a ray down with a tune. 

And this ray is 2. fairy ray — 

Did you not say so, Isabel ? 

How fantastically it fell 

With a spiral twist and a swell, 

And over the wet grass rippled away 

With a tinkling like a bell ! 

In my own country all the way 

We can discover a moon ray 

Which thro' some tatter'd curtain pries 

Into the darkness of a room, 

Is by (the very source of gloom) 

The motes, and dust, and flies, 

On which it trembles and lies 

Like joy upon sorrow ! 

O, when will come the morrow ? 

Isabel, do you not fear 

The night and the wonders here? 

Dim vales ! and shadowy floods ! 
And cloudy-looking woods 
Whose forms we can't discover 
For the tears that drip all over ! 

Huge moons — see ! wax and wane — 
Again — again — again. 

45 see I there 1829; B. G. M. 
235 



NOTES 

Every moment of the night — ; 

Forever changing places ! i 

How they put out the starlight j 

With the breath from their pale faces ! 

'i 

Lo ! one is coming down i 

With its centre on the crown 

Of a mountain's eminence ! ] 

Down — still down — and down — | 

Now deep shall be — O deep ! | 

The passion of our sleep ! ■ 

For that wide circumference l 

In easy drapery falls t 

Drowsily over halls — • 

Over ruin'd walls — \ 

(Over waterfalls !) j 

O'er the strange woods — o'er the sea — ''\ 

Alas ! over the sea ! ^ 

49 HoTU I And 1829; B. G. M. \ 

51 About twelve by the moon-dial * 

One, xaox^ filmy than the rest ] 

[A sort which, upon trial, \ 

They have found to be the best] ' 

Comes down — still down — and down 1829^ j 

B. G. M. • 

54-63 While its wide circumference | 

In easy drapery falls ; 

Over hamlets, and rich halls, J 

Wherever they may be — 1 

O'er the strange woods — o'er the sea — \ 

Over spirits on the wing 

Over every drowsy thing — < 

And buries them up quite ;: 

In a labyrinth of light — j 
236 



NOTES 



ALONE 



Alone, " Scribner's Magazine," September, 1875. 

Text. " Scribner's Magazine." 

Notes. This poem, on its publication, was dated, not 

in Poe's hand, " Baltimore, March 17, 1829." The 

words appear to be unauthorized. 

G. E. W. 

And then, how deep ! O ! deep ! 
Is the passion of their sleep 1 
In the morning they arise. 
And their moony covering 
Is soaring in the skies. 
With the tempests as they toss, 
^ Like — almost anything — 
Or a yellow Albatross. 

They use that moon no more 
For the same end as before — 
Videlicet a tent — 
Which I think extravagant : 
Its atomies, however, 
Into a shower dissever, 
Of which those butterflies. 
Of Earth, who seek the skies, 
And so come down again 
[The unbelieving things !] 
Have brought a specimen 
Upon their quivering wings. 

1829; B. G. M. 

1 Plagiarism — see the works of Thomas Moore —/or jjm — 
[Poe's note]. 

237 



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